


Us Against Them

by RainyDayDecaf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Branding, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Master Crowley, Mind Control, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Scars, Slave Aziraphale, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyDayDecaf/pseuds/RainyDayDecaf
Summary: This is a commendation, the letter read in the usual blunt fashion.  Report to Beelzebub for your reward and reassignment.Crowley flung himself down on his favorite chaise lounge, head tipped back, a loud and exasperated groan working its way out of his throat.  He had done it again.  Taken credit for something too big, too impressive.  Gotten noticed.  Well, he was in for it now.  The letter had specifically mentioned a reward in addition to a reassignment, and that could only mean one thing.They were going to give him a slave.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 176
Kudos: 327





	1. Come Along, Slave

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning now, all I have is an outline and about half of chapter two written. No promises on when (or if) this will be finished, but I’m sick of staring at it in my WIP folder, so whoop-dee-doo, here we go! Welcome to my Slave AU!
> 
> Also, if anyone is squinting at the tags and wondering if I’m missing something, this is a Sex-Free Slave AU. No rape, no dubcon, no sex whatsoever. (Now personally, I LOVE a nice kinky sex slave scenario, but I have NO confidence in writing one myself, so I figured “eh, I’ll just leave that out and see how it goes, who’s gonna stop me?”)

_Paris, 1793_

Crowley knew what this was about the moment he got the summons. Didn’t even need to open the charred envelope sitting on his rolltop desk (and that somehow smelled of both brimstone and mold at the same time), but he did anyway and unfolded the letter with a flourish, just for the sake of appearances. Not that there was anyone watching. Half the population of Paris was currently out in the streets gleefully chopping off heads and chanting about revolution. Crowley could hear the fall of the guillotine just down the street, in fact, but his demonic influence ensured their eyes slipped right past his extravagant townhouse and the wealthy owner therein.

 _This is a commendation,_ the letter read in the usual blunt fashion. _Your recent diabolical machinations in France have secured an exceptional number of souls for our Lord and Master. Report to Beelzebub for your reward and reassignment. An escort will be sent to retrieve you in short order. Hail Satan._

“Hail,” Crowley mumbled without enthusiasm. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the letter zooming across the study into the fireplace where it promptly burst into flames. He wrinkled his nose and opened the nearest window to air out the stench, then flung himself down on his favorite chaise lounge, head tipped back, a loud and exasperated groan working its way out of his throat.

He had done it again. Taken credit for something too big, too impressive. Gotten _noticed._ Crowley knew better than to get noticed. He had long ago mastered the art of exerting _just enough_ effort on his assignments to look useful and relevant, but at the same time not enough to stand out or catch the eye of anyone in power. He had half the Dark Council eating out of his palm while the other half wanted him strung up by his intestines, and Crowley _liked_ it that way. It meant he was mostly left alone, free to roam the Earth and fiddle with his own little side projects, as long as he met his quota and didn’t attract the notice of Heaven.

But now _this._ He should have guessed the revolution would get out of hand, but in all fairness, even Crowley had trouble these days gauging the bloodlust of any given human. They were all so ridiculously volatile, it was like lighting a fire with gunpowder on his hands.

Well, he was in for it now. Crowley launched himself back to his feet and set to pacing in circles, the distant jeers and slice of the guillotine adding an appropriate backdrop to his mounting ire. The letter had specifically mentioned a reward in addition to a reassignment. Hell rarely did rewards. That could only mean one of two things.

They weren’t going to promote him. Crowley knew that right off the bat. The Dark Council might adore him, Satan might favor him, but Beelzebub had already given him as much power and freedom as the average demon could hope to strive for. A promotion would put him at an equal rank to the likes of Hastur and Ligur, and nobody Downstairs wanted that.

So that left the second thing.

They were going to give him a slave.

Crowley blessed angrily and widened his pacing to encompass the whole of his townhouse. Up and down the three flights of stairs, in and out of the rooms he had grown to know so well in the past century. It was a decent enough house, more on the modest side than he preferred, but Crowley had gotten comfortable here. He _liked_ France, had dared to hope it might be a more long-term assignment, and now he would have to pack everything up again and move Heaven-only-knew where. Could be a nice Mediterranean country, or it could be the Australian outback, or it could be the top of a mountain in the Himalayas, he had no say in it. And no miraculous traveling for him, oh _no,_ couldn't have that. Instead it would be by carriage or horseback, maybe by boat if his reassignment was on another continent, and would it bloody _kill_ the humans to put away their head-cutting machines and invent more comfortable means of travel…?

(Crowley was aware he was avoiding the problem at hand. He spent the next two hours storming from one room to another, hissing at his plants and all while resolutely Not Thinking About The Problem At Hand.)

The thing was… the thing was… Crowley didn’t _want_ a slave. Call him crazy, call him soft, call him a sorry excuse for a demon, but the whole notion of slavery had left a bad taste in his mouth ever since humans invented the concept. Though he was very much alone in that line of thinking. Everybody else Downstairs practically _salivated_ over those poor… unlucky angels. Ever since some enterprising demon worked out how summoning circles and binding runes worked, they had made a sport of imprisoning angels and methodically breaking them, then gifting the results to high-ranking demons who distinguished themselves in the field. It was an art, he had been told once. Took a special kind of talent to shatter an angel’s will, yet keep them functional and receptive to orders.

Crowley wouldn’t know. He had managed to avoid being involved for the most part. Never went Downstairs except to make reports, never attended any of the demonstrations and training seminars (i.e. free-for-all torture fests). The only slaves he knew by sight were the ones Hastur and Ligur dragged around with them, and it creeped him out to see them lingering passively in the background, faces hollowed and hopeless, flinching away from every move their masters made. The idea of dealing with that in his own space, never alone for a single second, not even when he slept, was Crowley’s idea of eternal punishment.

So yeah, _the point was,_ Crowley didn’t know how to get out of this. Refusing outright wasn’t an option, unless he liked being stuck full of hot pokers for insulting his Inferiors. He could insist he had a project ongoing that required delicate handling and a slave would cramp his style… except for the little problem that he didn’t have any such project.

Or maybe…

The guillotine came down again outside. Crowley snapped his fingers in a little _ah-ha_ of victory. Of course! They wanted to reward him for his competence, so all he had to do was piss off Beelzebub with a show of _incompetence_ and make her take back the promised reward. Getting discorporated thanks to his own revolution would fit the bill perfectly. He just had to change his clothes, walk out there and….

A knock came at the door. His escort.

“Bugger,” Crowley hissed.

* * *

As usual, there were far too many demons crowded around watching the spectacle. Must be a slow day at the office. Crowley put on his biggest, fakest smile as he strode into the audience chamber and took a flourishing bow before Beelzebub's throne. It was an effort of will not to stare at the miserable slave crouched on all fours acting as her footstool.

“Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub drawled. “Well done on the commendation.”

“Always glad to be of service, my prince,” Crowley said to the floor. “Thanks ever so much for your glowing endorsement.”

“I voted against the commendation,” Beelzebub said flatly. She glared at him, chin propped on her hand. “I thought you could have done better.”

Crowley winced. "Ah. Well. Thanks anyway. For being such a _contemptible_ boss. Setting a fine example for the rest of us to follow."

Someone in the crowd guffawed and was swiftly kicked. A few others shifted nervously, unsure whether that should be taken as an insult or a compliment. Beelzebub gave no reaction except to look mildly bored by his antics. She kicked her slave, and the angel scrambled out of her path as she stood and stepped closer to Crowley.

"The Dark Council has elected to reward you for your efforts. On this day, you are to be gifted the rarest and most coveted prize Hell has to offer—an angel to serve you and do your bidding, to be used and tormented as you see fit."

An air of excitement swept through the audience, the demons whispering to each other in delighted awe. The number of slaves were so few that most of Hell's inhabitants would never even earn the privilege of _touching_ one, let alone owning one. Most of them would have gladly ripped Crowley limb from limb to be where he was now. Crowley would have traded places with any one of them in a heartbeat.

"It is a privilege,” Beelzebub went on, “to be so recognized for one so lowly as yourself. Do _not_ treat this lightly, Crowley."

"No, never, would I do such a thing?" Crowley asked in all innocence and earned himself a sneer. Beelzebub returned to her throne and sprawled out again, heels coming down hard on the back of her kneeling slave. She snapped her fingers.

"Bring them out!”

Crowley nibbled nervously at his lip, then made himself stop before anyone noticed. A door to the side swung open with an ominous creak, and the crowd began jeering and hooting as Hastur and Ligur and Dagon strolled into sight. In their hands were long rusty chains, and connected to those chains were three angels shuffling into the open on bare feet. They looked around fearfully at the hostile crowd, at Beelzebub in her throne, at Crowley as they were paraded before him. Hastur jerked the chains, and one angel cried out and tumbled to her knees. Her clothes were less than a century out of style, and her face was streaked with tears, blood matted in her brown hair. She froze beneath Crowley’s scrutiny, curling in on herself like she was expecting a kick to the stomach.

Crowley forced a chuckle and hoped his broad smirk covered up how he was instinctively shifting his weight, swaying back and forth like a cornered snake, trying to appear bigger and more venomous than it actually was. "Well, _well._ Three slaves? I didn't know the Dark Council liked me that much."

 _"One_ slave," Beelzebub said sternly. "You're to choose one of these three. Don't dawdle."

"Right, yeah," Crowley said, nearly deafened now by the crowd's wild hollering. He was still trying to come up with a way out of this and having absolutely no brilliant ideas. Stalling was the best he could manage. "So. Uh. Mind if I, you know… inspect the goods first?"

Beelzebub smirked and waved a hand. "By all means. I'm curious to hear your opinion. You've never shown much interest before. It's all work and no play with you."

Crowley cleared his throat. "Well, you know me. Very dedicated to the cause. No time for distractions.”

Hastur seized the kneeling angel by the hair and wrenched her head back to expose the livid welts where she had recently been choked, laughing at her useless attempts to pull away. "This one’s a recent capture. Picked her up myself on the coast or Ireland. Still needs some training, but in my opinion the feistiness is a bonus. Makes it more _satisfying_ when they finally break and call you Master for the first time…”

"Sounds like more trouble than I want," Crowley said. He sighed with the air of someone far too important to be bothered. "And the others?"

Dagon poked the one in the middle, a chubby white-haired angel wearing a toga that was circa 5 AD, if Crowley had to guess. The angel winced at the pull of the chains and stared resolutely at the wall above Crowley's shoulder, jaw clenched tight. Very martyr-ish, that one. Quietly resigned to his fate. Crowley wondered how many other masters he had been through, to look so exhausted and _done_ with this whole affair.

"This one's not much fun," Dagon said in derision. "Doesn’t cry, doesn't scream, just kind of yelps when you smack him around. All of his previous masters have gotten bored with him at some point and keep giving him back. But who knows, maybe boring is more your speed?"

"Maybe you should fuck right off," Crowley muttered.

Dagon growled. Crowley hissed right back, and Beelzebub brought them back to heel with a sharp rebuke.

"Get on with it!"

Ligur stepped up with the third angel. Bald head, indistinguishable features for the most part, wearing clothes that had last been in fashion when the Plague was running rampant. Unlike the other two, his eyes were weirdly glazed over in a way that made him look drugged.

A cold shudder slithered up Crowley’s spine. Blimey, he _recognized_ this one. From Sodom and Gomorrah. Crowley vividly remembered this angel doing a lot of smiting and turning people to salt. He himself had narrowly escaped a painful discorporation at those hands.

"Now _this_ one is my favorite," Ligur said with a dark chuckle. "Didn't take more than a decade to break him. He _loves_ doing as he's told, you don’t even have to Compel him. Just watch. Oi, slave! Lick my shoes clean!"

The slave dropped to his knees. No hesitation, not even a hint of unwillingness. And he didn't just lick Ligur’s shoes, he _slobbered_ over them, eagerly laving his tongue across every inch of the leather stained with layers of grime built up over thousands of years. The crowd lost it completely, screaming their heads off at the sight of an angel brought so low. The slave was unmoved, just kept going over and over the shoes until his tongue was black and he was visibly gagging. He only stopped when Ligur drew back his foot and kicked him sharply in the face, then lay where he had fallen, panting and bleeding from his mouth and nose.

Hastur sidled up to Crowley with a massive grin, obviously waiting for some kind of reaction. "Well? What do you think?"

Crowley nodded. "Yup. That sure was…" _Disgusting. Pitiful. Horrific._ "…impressive."

“Make your choice,” Beelzebub said. “Some of us have places to be.”

“Right, uh, right.” Crowley ran his tongue over his fangs and made a show of pacing back and forth, examining each of his options closely. In reality, his mind had gone quite blank with panic. Which of these slaves did he like best? None of them, really. They would all be annoying to deal with in their own ways, so it came down to which would be the _least_ annoying in the long term.

“Any day now, Crowley.”

Crowley grimaced. “Well, you’ve given me such _marvelous_ options here,” he said, still stalling. “Gonna be hard to limit myself. You sure I can’t have all three?”

Beelzebub’s cloud of flies buzzed louder, always a dangerous sign. The crowd behind him was also beginning to mutter restlessly, some shouting out helpful suggestions. The general consensus seemed to be that the shoe licker was the best choice. The angels themselves were silent, the one sobbing, the other stoic, and the third still bleeding heavily from his nose. All waiting miserably for their fates to be decided. Crowley started to feel a bit ill, indecision gnawing at him.

_The Crier, the Stoic, or the Eager-to-Please? The Crier, the Stoic, or the Eager-to-Please?_

“...maybe I could get a raincheck?” Crowley asked hopefully. “It’s just, it’s such an _important_ decision, I wouldn’t want the Dark Council to think I’m not taking it seriously. Perhaps I should sleep on it?”

“Crowley…”

“You know, I think I left the kettle on, I really ought to go check…”

Beelzebub slammed her fist down on the arm of her throne, the harsh _BANG_ echoing up and down the halls.

“Pick. One.”

Crowley raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! Just building the suspense, you know I like a good show.”

“Make your choice,” Beelzebub warned, “or the choice will be made for you.”

“Fine.” He pointed without looking. “That one.”

Crowley heard the audience groan in disappointment. He looked where he was pointing and silently blessed. His finger was aimed squarely at the one in the toga. The Stoic.

 _“Really?”_ Ligur said under his breath in disbelief.

Hastur snorted. “He’s always had bad taste, why are we surprised? No appreciation for the finer things.”

“Dagon,” Beelzebub said. “Get the paperwork sorted and return the other two to their circles. The rest of you, clear out! Show’s over!”

“Can we see the other one lick more shoes?”

Beelzebub waved her hand irritably and sent a swarm of biting flies into the audience. _“Out!”_

In the chaos of demons shrieking and fleeing the chamber, Crowley took a moment to look over his new slave. The angel briefly met his gaze, dove gray eyes darting up and then quickly away. His hands nervously wrung the filthy fabric of his toga, fingernails jagged and yellowed from too much time spent wallowing in the depths of Hell.

 _Terrific_ , Crowley thought glumly and followed Dagon out, the white-haired angel shuffling along behind them.

* * *

“Sign here. And here. Initial here and here. Checkmark that box there and sign again…”

“Need a bit of my blood, too?” Crowley said dryly.

“That’s on the next page,” Dagon said and helpfully flipped to said page. “Take a moment to read through the clause at the bottom. You, the undersigned, hereby assume responsibility for everything this slave does while in your possession. You have free reign to use him as you please, but you may _not_ command him to attack, spy on, or otherwise torment any demon above your rank. If the slave is discorporated, the price of a replacement body will come out of your infernal wages, and depending on the circumstances, you may be punished for being careless with the Dark Council’s property.”

“Yup, got it.” Crowley used his fangs to prick his palm and let his blood drip onto the contract. He tried not to feel awkward that the subject of their conversation was standing right behind his chair, silent and attentive while Crowley and Dagon traded various papers across the desk. “So how does the whole Compelling thing work again? Does he just obey any order given him or…?”

Dagon looked at him in exasperation. “That’s all covered in the bicentennial training seminars. Didn’t you attend any of them?”

Crowley shrugged. “Was busy. Humans don’t tempt themselves, you know.”

“Ugh.” Dagon reached into the filing cabinet and slapped a packet down on the desk. “Here are the notes and slides, go over them for more details. _Essentially,_ the slaves have been trained to obey their masters without the need for force. But if he ever _does_ refuse, then you can Compel by invoking his name. Like so.” She snapped her fingers. “Aziraphale, turn and face the wall!”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder to see the angel pivot and stand with his nose only an inch from the wall. His spine was stiff, body trembling, and Crowley wondered if he was actively resisting the Compulsion. Then he wondered, morbidly, what it felt like to be Compelled in the first place. Did it hurt the angel? Was it like being jerked around on puppet strings?

“Now face us, Aziraphale.”

Again, the angel turned. His expression gave nothing away, but the annoyance was plain in the way he pressed his lips together.

“I never get tired of that,” Dagon said, snickering. “Aziraphale, face the wall! Aziraphale, face us! Aziraphale, face the wall—”

“Aziraphale, stop listening to her,” Crowley snapped.

The angel stopped spinning and sagged against the wall with a gasp of relief.

“Spoilsport,” Dagan said. "Anyway, Compelling gets tedious after awhile. We recommend and encourage using corporal punishment to reinforce their training. The exact methods are up to you, but the standard is whipping or caning, flaying of skin, breaking of bones…”

Crowley swallowed. “Mhmm, all great choices.”

“…and I’m a particular fan of taking a pair of pliers to the teeth and fingernails, one by one. That’ll get ‘em screaming like nothing else.”

Crowley looked at the angel critically, then back at Dagon. “He’s still got all of his teeth?”

Dagon grinned. “Great thing about angels. They heal _fast._ You can break every bone in their corporation, spread their bleeding entrails across the floor, and they’ll be right as rain tomorrow, ready to be ruined all over again.”

He really could have done without that mental image. “Huh,” Crowley mumbled. “That’s… handy.”

“I know, right? Course you’d _know this_ if you came to the training sessions…”

"So what if he tries to attack me or smite me?” Crowley asked, curiosity getting the better of him. “I mean, he _is_ an angel. Still got access to his holy powers and miracles, right?”

“Which he can only use at your behest," Dagon said, scowling like he was being deliberately obtuse. "And it's easy enough to Compel him not to lay a hand on you—”

“Do they ever try to run away? What’s stopping him from flying up to Heaven as soon as I turn my back?”

“Heaven doesn’t leave their gates open anymore, not for the last three thousand years.” Dagon leered at the angel over his shoulder. “And no matter how far he goes, we can summon him back at any time with the runes branded into his wings. He knows that well enough, don’t you, precious? You wouldn't even dare to try, knowing what we would do to you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the angel said hoarsely. Crowley jumped. He had been starting to wonder if the slave was mute.

“And if he does run off,” Dagon added and snapped her gaze back to Crowley, “then that’s for _you_ to explain to the Dark Council. I suggest you make an effort not to misplace your slave. Keep him well in hand, or we’ll pass him off to someone more capable. Someone who will _appreciate_ the gift they’ve been given.”

“Oh, but I do appreciate,” Crowley said. He looked at the angel and tried to match her earlier leer. “Got all kinds of plans just… waiting in the wings.”

“Uh huh.” Her tone suggested she didn’t believe him in the slightest. Dagon set one more thick folder on the desk. “That’s his file. Details about his capture and training, his previous masters, known problem areas and effective punishments, etc. Any questions?”

“Yeah, actually, I was wondering…”

“Good, off you go. Legion over by the front gates will give you your reassignment paperwork.”

Crowley barely had time to gather up the packet and folder and his copy of the contract before he was shoved unceremoniously out of the office. He glared back at the shut door and fumbled with the papers, trying to work out how to carry them up through the circles of Hell without looking supremely stupid.

Then he paused and glanced back at his new slave. The angel averted his gaze.

“Here. Hold these.”

“Yes, Master,” the angel said and held out his arms for the files to be deposited. Crowley straightened his coat, aware suddenly of the lower ranking demons who were surreptitiously watching from their desks, hungry for the sight of an angel being bossed around.

Well. Might as well give the people what they want.

“Oi, look at me.”

The angel hesitated, but a clawed finger under his chin encouraged him to tilt his head up. Crowley heard his breath stutter, watched his eyes frantically dart back and forth between his own slit-pupiled ones. But for all Crowley could _smell_ the fear washing over him in waves, the angel didn't let it show on his face. Crowley almost admired him for that.

He slid his hand around the back of the angel’s head, gripping just tight enough to hold him in place, and leaned in close.

"Are they all looking?" Crowley murmured in his ear.

The angel nodded, barely moving his head.

"Good. Do me a favor, yeah? Act like I'm saying something terrifying. Sssomething properly chilling and demonic to scare the life out of you."

There was a pause. Then the angel gave a full-body shudder against him. When Crowley pulled back, the angel had his eyes closed, face screwed up in a rictus of anguish. The beads of sweat on his forehead were a nice touch, though Crowley had a feeling those hadn't been on purpose. The nearby demons cackled.

"Yeah, that'll do." Crowley released the angel and stepped back, then turned on his heel. "Come along," he said more loudly, _“slave.”_

He didn't bother to check if the angel was following him. Crowley could hear the swish of his toga and his bare feet padding along, the latter occasionally _squelching_ in some bit of filth on the floor. He made a mental note to get the angel a pair of shoes first thing as he led the way out of Hell.


	2. We Can Work This Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a bad week, let myself work on this fic as a treat. I’m following my outline and trying to stay a chapter ahead in my writing, and if there are any inconsistencies or errors, please forgive me. The world is going to shit, so I’m saying “fuck it” and sinking into self-indulgence. Come and join me!

The two of them popped out of the earth in the middle of a forest just outside of Paris. Crowley let go of the angel’s arm and irritably brushed the dirt from his clothes.

“Every time,” Crowley griped under his breath. He banished the claws and fangs, both of which he had donned purely for aesthetic purposes, and absently raked his fingers through his hair to get rid of the tangles and do it up in the popular style of the day. “You’d think they’d come up with a less messy way of doing that. What, just because we were all cast down from Heaven, now we _must_ wallow in filth at all times? I don’t buy it. Better to spite those bastards Up There by being extra clean, in my opinion…”

Aziraphale wasn’t even listening. Crowley turned around and realized the slave had wandered off a short distance, over to a nearby road cutting through the forest. Gazing upward at the gap in the trees, the files clutched tight to his chest, Aziraphale seemed utterly entranced by the blue sky and puffy clouds. Crowley watched his shoulders lift a bit, an unconscious motion that mimicked the spreading of wings.

“Don’t even think about it!”

The angel recoiled and looked at him with wide eyes, then ducked his head when Crowley stalked over. “Forgive me. I… forgot myself.”

Crowley crossed his arms. “No point trying, anyway. Like Dagon said, the gates are closed. I haven’t seen another angel on Earth in… oh, it’s been centuries. I dunno if Heaven even keeps permanent agents down here anymore.”

The angel nodded, still staring resolutely at his toes. “...yes, Master.”

“Now look, I don’t want any trouble from you! I mean it, if I even _think_ you’re about to make my life difficult…”

“No, Master. Of course not, Master. I will do my utmost to obey you, Master.”

Sweet Satan, Crowley was already annoyed. He held up his hand to halt the stream of groveling and snapped his fingers. The angel flinched.

From further down the road came the steady _clip-clop_ of approaching horses. Crowley waved the angel back as a stagecoach rolled into sight and halted before them, steered by a human who knew better than to ask awkward questions (such as why his employer had emerged from the woods with a man in a toga, or how the horses seemed to magically know where and when to pick up said employer, or why he had a sudden urge to take his children and leave France sometime in the next week).

Crowley opened the door and jerked his head. Aziraphale hesitated for a brief moment before climbing inside, and Crowley followed in after, a quick snap of his fingers setting the coach back in motion. (Really, the coachman sometimes wondered what his job even was here. The horses seemed to know what they were about with no need of his input.)

It wasn't a very long journey back to Paris. An hour or two, tops. But Crowley was ready to crawl out of his skin in the first five minutes, the presence of the slave grating on him. Aziraphale seemed of a similar mind. He was huddled on the opposite seat as far away from Crowley as he could manage, watching the countryside roll by and worrying at the hem of his toga. It looked even worse by daylight. Crowley had a feeling the cloth had once been white, but now it was mostly gray and yellow with a number of questionable reddish-brown streaks that didn’t bear thinking about. The angel's corporation was likewise abused, sallow and sickly with dark circles under his eyes and fresh bruises on his wrists and ankles. From the manacles, no doubt. Not that appearances mattered much where immortals were concerned, but maintaining a healthy-looking corporation took a certain amount of power, and the angel had clearly been denied that for a long time.

Aziraphale stiffened and shrank in on himself. Crowley belatedly realized that he had been staring without blinking for an uncomfortably long time.

“Give me those," Crowley said and snatched the paperwork from his hands. At least it was something to do. He meant to start with the reassignment orders, but the angel's file caught his eye first, and Crowley flipped it open and scanned the first page.

_Aziraphale. Principality. Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Assigned to Earth in 4004 BC. No notable accomplishments on record._

Huh. So this angel had been one of the guards at Eden. Crowley had only seen them once, at a very far distance, and had avoided them like the plague that hadn't been invented yet.

_Captured 79 AD. Pompeii. Found unconscious in the wake of the volcanic blast. Immediately restrained, branded and transported to Hell._

Well, that was just plain bad luck. It normally took three or four demons working together to pin an angel down and brand their wings with the binding runes, and even then not all of the demons would make it out unscathed. Especially when there were flaming swords and javelins to contend with. Crowley idly wondered what had become of Aziraphale's weapon.

 _Trained by: Dagon (with occasional consult from Hastur)_ _  
__Previous Masters: Gorhn, Mathub, Hesbestas, Crawly (current)_

"Spelled my name wrong again, the bastards," Crowley muttered. The angel darted a quick look at him.

 _Strengths: learns quickly, receptive to punishment_ _  
__Problem Areas: too clever, insubordinate, talks back without talking back_

"Huh," Crowley said. "What it says here, on your paperwork. Too clever? Why is that under the Problems list? And what does it mean, you 'talk back' without talking back?"

Aziraphale blushed, of _all_ things. He cleared his throat. "I have… been informed that… my tone does not always match my words. My previous masters mistook that for sedition.”

Crowley smirked. _“Mistook,_ eh? Or were you just using words too big for them and they got embarrassed?”

“I have since been reeducated,” Aziraphale said, immediately cutting off his weak attempt at banter. “I have learned the error of my ways. I will not defy you, I will do my utmost to obey you in all things—”

"Yeah, okay, got it.” Crowley sighed and slumped further down in his seat. He tucked Aziraphale's file away, instead turning to his reassignment. Praying for Fiji or the Caribbean, he scanned the first line.

And blessed furiously.

 _"London?_ They're sending me to London!"

Aziraphale regarded him in confusion. "What is… London?"

"It's bloody _cold,_ is what it is! Cold and wet, no indoor plumbing, it's like one giant rat-infested sewer!"

"Oh." Aziraphale paused. "Wait. Are you speaking of that little settlement in the north of the Roman Empire? It's a _city_ now?"

"That's the one," Crowley groused. "Started as a port town, went through a bit of a Viking phase after the Empire fell…"

"Rome _fell?"_ Aziraphale cried, quite visibly devastated.

"Oh yeah, ages ago. Where have _you_ been?"

Crowley winced as soon as the question was out of his mouth. Stupid, insensitive question. The angel had been in Hell, obviously, being tortured and abused and made to lick the boots of his captors. His previous masters had probably rarely bothered to bring him up for air.

Aziraphale didn't seem to notice the faux pas, thankfully. The angel shook his head and gestured helplessly out the window. "But I don't believe it. The Empire was so vast, so strong! The Romans had so much _culture_."

"I mean, they also had gladiator fights," Crowley said. "And endless wars to conquer other countries. And slavery, don't forget the slavery. Regular connoisseurs, they were.”

"And the philosophers and scientists," Aziraphale waxed on with a sigh of yearning. "Astronomers, mathematicians. Oh, the things they built with their clever hands and minds! And the _restaurants._ There was this delightful little place run by a man named Petronius, had you heard of it?”

Crowley propped his cheek on his knuckles, having found something far more interesting than his paperwork. “Can’t say I have, no.”

“It was the oysters, you see, he had the most remarkable way of…” But Aziraphale trailed off. And Crowley could see the exact moment he remembered where he was, who he was talking to, and his face lost all color as he withdrew into himself. The shift from animated angel to timid slave was so sudden, it was like snuffing a candle.

“No, go on, tell me! What about Petronius and his oysters? What was so great about them?”

“No, nothing, they weren’t,” Aziraphale stammered, voice tight. He wrung his hands. “Forgive me, for speaking out of turn. It won't happen again. I will accept any punishment you deem suitable.”

“Oh, for—” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, more than a little frustrated by the curveballs Aziraphale kept throwing him. "Alright, look. Aziraph…”

Aziraphale tensed.

"…sorry, angel, let’s get one thing straight. I'm not going to punish you just for _talking out of turn._ Do you know how many times I've spoken out of turn during meetings with Beelzebub? Too many to count. Believe me, I know what it’s like to want to tell your boss to sod right off.”

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to stare, lips parted in shock.

Crowley leaned closer. "Look, I never asked for a slave," he said, a little desperately. "I don't _want_ a slave. But they gave you to me anyway, and I can't give you back without insulting a whole lot of demons above my pay grade. So we're stuck with each other. And there's one thing I want you to understand."

"…and that is?" Aziraphale said, looking as if he expected Crowley to lunge and rip his throat out.

Crowley lowered his voice and injected just a smidge of Temptation, wheedling with all his might. “I have the potential to be the most lenient master you've ever had. I won't ask much of you, if I can help it. A few errands here and there. Nothing more than a stern lecture if you mess up. All I want in return is for you to put on the whole 'terrorized slave' act when other demons are around, so they don't think I'm slacking. We can work this out, you and me. Our little arrangement."

Aziraphale gaped his mouth open and shut a few times. For a moment, Crowley sensed him waver, sensed the budding hope, the desire to give in… before his expression hardened.

“Is this a test?"

Crowley blinked. _"What?"_

"It is, of course it is,” Aziraphale said under his breath. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, that blessed stoicism rising back to the surface like armor. "I won’t forget my place again."

"Satan below, what did they _do_ to you down there?"

Aziraphale didn't answer. He seemed determined not to even look at Crowley anymore, let alone talk to him. Crowley ground his teeth, deeply tempted to Compel him, but the memory of how Dagon had made him spin in circles made his stomach churn. He went back to reading the details of his reassignment instead, but couldn't stop himself from glancing up at the angel every now and again, studying his profile and pondering how to coax another conversation out of him.

* * *

"Oh, good Lord!"

Crowley roused from his doze. It took a moment for the slick _slice_ of the guillotine to register, he was so accustomed to it. "Oh yeah, that's a thing," he muttered.

"What's happening?" Aziraphale twisted in his seat to keep the riot in sight as their stagecoach rolled along, the horses unconcerned. "Those humans… they're murdering each other!"

"It's a revolution. Surely you've seen them before? Humans getting upset with the people in power and deposing them in the most gruesome way possible? Happens all the time.”

"Not like this! Did you _see_ the machine they built?"

"Not our business. We won't be in Paris much longer.”

The angel made a pained noise, but averted his gaze in the end and made no further comment. Crowley bit his tongue against the sudden urge to blurt out, _It wasn’t me! It was all them, I had nothing to do with it!_ Aziraphale might belong to him now, but ultimately, he was the property of the Dark Council. The slave had the power to ruin everything, to get Crowley thrown into the deepest pit, just by virtue of being there to watch his every move. Even the privacy of his own home wasn’t safe anymore, not with Aziraphale there at all hours of the day… in fact, Crowley had a sinking suspicion that had been half the reason for this commendation in the first place. Surveillance disguised as a reward.

He was so royally _fucked,_ he thought morbidly. No more lazing about letting humans tend their own affairs, no more drunken binges or sleeping for decades at a time. Oh, he was going to miss blatantly lying in his reports and having absolutely no one in a position to contradict his claims. All it would take was one wrong word in the right ear, one little whisper that Crowley was not conducting himself as a demon should. If Hell suspected for even a _second_ that the powerful, cunning, sadistic Serpent of Eden was little more than a carefully-crafted persona…

The stagecoach finally pulled to a stop outside Crowley’s townhouse, and it was a relief to step out and stretch his legs. He turned back and offered his hand for the angel to take.

Aziraphale stared at him blankly, one foot hovering above the street.

Crowley snatched his hand back. "Er, human habit,” he said, deeply embarrassed. “Sorry. Pretend that didn't happen."

"Y…Yes, quite right," Aziraphale said, clumsily stepping down. "I mean, yes Master! As you wish.”

"Go inside," Crowley said and waited until Aziraphale had scurried into the house before he leaned against the coach. Breathing deeply, trying to pull himself together.

“You’re a _demon._ Bloody _act_ like one. Should be easy, he’s an angel, they’re all bastards. Couple of harsh words here and there won’t kill him.”

The coachman leaned over to look at him with concern. “Monsieur? Are you well?”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, don’t mind me, just having a crisis of morals,” he muttered. He paid the man and sent him on his way (with a demonic curse for he and his children to have a long, exhausting, and very uneventful journey to Sweden), then dragged his reluctant feet to the door.

Aziraphale was not in the foyer. Crowley had a moment of slight panic as he hung up his coat and set aside the files before he poked his head in the parlour. There was the angel, standing _much_ too close to the Da Vinci sketch, fingertips hovering mere inches away. And this, _this_ was exactly what Crowley didn't want, some strange celestial poking around his private collection.

Right, he thought. Time to be a demon.

_"Did I SAY you could touch my things?!”_

Aziraphale jerked away. He was on his knees in an instant, babbled apologies spilling from his lips. “Forgive me, I’m so sorry—”

"And stop it with the groveling!" Crowley snapped. Mercifully, the angel fell silent, but he didn’t raise his head. Probably awaiting some kind of punishment, and Crowley went from feeling irritated to irrationally guilty. He had to bite back the apology on his tongue and despised himself for the reflexive politeness that living among humans had drilled into him.

Crowley folded his hands behind his back, pacing before the prone form of his slave. “Some ground rules. You're not allowed to touch my possessions. My art, my books, my decorations, those are off limits. My bedroom is also off limits. Everything else is fine, furniture and whatnot, but if you break a dish or something, I’ll… er, send you out to get a new one.”

Aziraphale lifted his gaze to Crowley’s boots, the tiny gesture somehow showing more incredulity than any facial expression. That wouldn’t do. He stepped closer, glaring hard until the slave cowered and lowered himself further, forehead pressed to the rug. A rug which, Crowley noticed now, had a number of muddy footprints from the angel’s bare feet. Years and years of imprisonment, followed by a trek through the forest, had left his soles in a sorry state.

“...you’ve tracked in dirt,” Crowley said evenly. He turned on his heel. “Come on. Follow me.”

Aziraphale scrambled up and fell in step behind him as Crowley led the way upstairs, turning into a guest bedroom that had never seen a lick of use except as decoration. He opened the doors of one of the wardrobes and sighed at the bare shelves. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually bought clothes. It was just easier to wish them into existence most days, and anything that was stained or ruined was vanished away barely a thought.

This, of course, meant he had nothing on hand for Aziraphale to wear. Crowley leaned back to look over him critically, the slave lingering nervously in the hallway and making a very obvious effort to Not Look His Master In The Eye. Black wouldn't suit, Crowley decided, he would never pull it off. Pale cream would be better, maybe with some gold to complement his eyes and skin tone…

 _What am I thinking?_ Crowley scolded himself. _For Hell's sake, he's not your dress-up doll! Complement his eyes, bah!_

He reached into the empty wardrobe and miraculously pulled out a pile of clothes and a pair of pink heeled shoes, all of which he shoved into the angel’s arms without fanfare. Aziraphale didn't seem at all perturbed about being handed things and expected to carry them, meekly following Crowley further down the hall to a waiting bathroom. A blink, and the tub was filled with steaming water and surrounded by bottles of various soaps and lotions and combs and scrub brushes.

"Alright, first thing's first,” Crowley said. “You're having a bath. You reek of brimstone, and I'm not having that in my house.”

Aziraphale peered inside at the tub, then back at Crowley. "I'm… I beg your pardon?"

“You heard me. Get in there, scrub down head to toe, and don't come out 'til you smell like perfume. And burn that toga while you're at it."

 _"Burn_ it?" Aziraphale gasped, like Crowley had ordered him to drown a kitten.

He ground his teeth. "Fine, you can keep it as long as you wash it. But humans don't wear togas anymore, so keep that in mind."

"I…” Aziraphale looked like he had something to say, but held it back. “Yes, Master Crowley. But…?"

"Right, in you go." Crowley gave him a nudge across the threshold. "Take your time. I'll have more for you to do after."

“Yes, Mas…”

Crowley shut the door in his perplexed face and went back downstairs. Hands on his hips, he surveyed his private collection and (not for the first time) acknowledged that he was a packrat. His house contained everything from oil paintings and sketches to pottery and poetry, sculptures and tapestries and textiles, even tools and wood carvings from the very early days of humanity. He had armoires filled with jewelry and beadwork that rarely saw the light of day, a small bookcase containing only his very favorite books, the odd toy or knickknack stuffed in various drawers…

The logistics of moving it all to London was already giving him a headache. If Head Office allowed it, Crowley would do it all at once with a snap of his fingers, but as usual, they were stingy and refused to let him get away with that kind of power expenditure for personal reasons. He would have no choice but to rely on clumsy mortals to handle the actual transport.

Somewhere upstairs, Crowley heard a faint splash followed by a _very_ loud and blissful groan. His lips twitched in amusement as he got to work, lovingly taking down each item and wrapping it in soft canvas before miracleing up sturdy crates to pack them in. He lost himself in the task, letting the memories wash over him with each new piece. All those humans he had gotten on so well with, for however brief a time they had lived on Earth. He was overdue for a new human friend, come to think of it. Maybe he would look for one in London. The job could get lonely sometimes without someone to talk to.

"See you on the other side, Leonardo," Crowley said to the Da Vinci, the last piece to be put away. He looked around at the empty walls, the furniture he would leave behind, and felt a bit melancholy. No trace that he had ever been here. Why did this part always depress him so much?

Someone cleared their throat.

Crowley twisted around with a startled curse, heart in his throat, ready to tell off whatever sorry human had invaded his place without prior permission.

But it was only Aziraphale, awkwardly peeking in at him through the doorway of the parlour. Crowley had forgotten all about the angel. A quick glance at the mantle clock revealed that three hours had passed without his notice.

“Oh. All done, then?”

Aziraphale nodded and seemed to take that as his cue to step into the room, fiddling with his lace cravat. Crowley rose from his crouch and circled around him. The new clothes fit well enough, but Crowley’s subconscious appeared to have gone for more wealthy Englishman than French revolutionary. Oh well, too late to change it now. Aziraphale had also taken the time to wash his hair and give himself a manicure, which Crowley didn’t blame him for one bit. Sulfur was absolute murder on the cuticles.

When Crowley had finished his circling, Aziraphale shifted his weight uncertainty and gave a brief bow. The movement caused a whiff of orange blossom to reach Crowley’s nose. “Master,” he murmured.

Crowley crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. "How was the bath?"

The angel paused. He seemed to struggle for the right words. "It was… nice. Thank you for allowing me to bathe. And for giving me new clothes."

Crowley pulled a face. _"Don't_ thank me. I'm a demon, I don't do things to be _nice._ Everything I ask of you is for my benefit, nothing more."

"…yes, of course, I would never presume," Aziraphale said, very softly. "What would you ask of me now?"

Crowley balked. “Um,” he said dumbly.

Right. He had said he would have more for Aziraphale to do after the bath… except he hadn't bothered to actually think of something. The packing was done, and he couldn’t just order the angel stand around doing nothing. That would be creepy, and somehow Crowley had a feeling that wasn't proper master-slave behavior.

"Right, okay, uh, here's a job you can do." Crowley leaned over the desk and began to write out a list of instructions on blank stationary. "We're heading to London for my next assignment. I need you to go hire some humans to ship all of these crates ahead of us and have them stored, just for a week or two until we get there and find a place to live… er, establish a base of operations. Simple enough job, right?"

He held out the paper. Aziraphale stepped closer to take it, reading the instructions for himself with a look of unease. The orange blossom scent became overwhelming at this proximity, and Crowley had to resist the urge to bury his face in that fluffy, freshly washed hair. It still looked a bit damp, little curls clinging to his forehead.

Aziraphale looked up. "You wish me to go out and… speak with humans? On your behalf?”

"Yes. And?"

"I haven't interacted with humans in over a thousand years," Aziraphale said in a strangled voice. "I'm not sure I remember _how."_

"Well, you've done it before, haven't you?" Crowley asked impatiently. "You were stationed on Earth once, doing…" He waved his hand. "…Principality things. Trust me, humans haven’t changed. Just ask around, they’ll be eager to help.”

He still looked apprehensive. Crowley hesitated, debating with himself. This probably wasn’t a good idea, but he was desperate to get the slave out of his hair for at least a few hours. So he snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale gasped, eyelids fluttering closed, as a tiny sliver of holy power returned to him.

"There, that should be enough miracles to keep you out of trouble.” He loomed a little closer with the aim to intimidate. "Mind, that's _only_ for emergencies. Don't abuse the privilege. And for Hell's sake, avoid the revolutionaries and don't get your head chopped off!”

Aziraphale nodded. He folded up the list and tucked it away in his coat. "I won't, Master. I will return as soon as I've finished my… er, errand."

Crowley nodded and waited until the angel was out the door and down the street before he flung himself onto the chaise lounge and sighed. This was his life now. Angel at his beck and call, constantly waiting to be ordered about, and Crowley wasn't even demon enough to do it properly. He felt _bad_ for Aziraphale. He felt bad for _himself._

With another sigh, he summoned a drink to hand. This required Brooding. Might well be the last decent Brood he ever had. Better make it count.


	3. That's Gotta Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to stay a chapter ahead, but chapter four is taking longer than I thought, and I got tired of sitting on this chapter. Have some classic Bastille rescue!

Aziraphale was late. Crowley didn't actually notice _how_ late until he surfaced from his drunken stupor and realized night had fallen outside. The townhouse was nearly pitch black, though that wasn't a problem for his vision.

"What?" Crowley mumbled at no one. He rubbed his eyes and clawed his way back to sobriety. "Aziraphale?"

No answer. He rolled off the chaise lounge, joints popping from lack of movement, and searched the surrounding rooms, anxiety churning in his gut when that turned up nothing. That wasn’t right. Aziraphale should have been back hours ago. Or maybe Crowley was panicking for nothing. Maybe the angel was just upstairs having a kip, cherishing some downtime before he had to go back to the bowing and scraping.

Gripping the banister of the stairs, he growled at the upper floors. "Aziraphale! If you’re up there, come to me! Now!"

Still nothing. Of course. Compelling wouldn’t work if Aziraphale couldn’t hear him. That just meant he wasn’t in the house. He was still _out_ _there,_ with only a handful of minor miracles between him and the angry masses looking for any excuse to hurt whatever hapless thing crossed their path…

"Blessed, stupid, buggering, _fuck.”_ Crowley snatched up his coat and threw open the front door, which startled a group of humans strolling by on the pavement outside. "Oi, you lot! Have you seen a man with white hair? Well-dressed, kind of pudgy, gay as anything?"

"Oh, do you mean the Englishman?"

Crowley paused, having not expected any of these humans to know what he was talking about. "I… actually, yeah. Where’s he gone?"

"They arrested him and took him to the Bastille," one of the humans said. "I hear they're planning to execute him first thing tomorrow."

"Serves him right for being English," another human sniffed. "Let his head roll with the rest of the aristocrats, I say!"

 _Shit,_ Crowley thought eloquently and took off down the street at a dead sprint.

* * *

He smelled the blood long before he reached the Bastille. The cobbles in the courtyard were drenched in the stuff, murky puddles splashing beneath his feet. The guillotine stood silent for now, awaiting its next batch of prisoners tomorrow, the blade gleaming bright in the moonlight.

“I hate humans,” Crowley said as he skirted the puddles. He glared the prison door until it sheepishly swung open and squelched his way inside. “I hate guillotines, I hate revolutions, I hate angels… bloody angels! I ask him for _one thing,_ what did I say? Don’t get caught and beheaded, and what does he do? Skips off and gets arrested the moment I turn my back!”

“Halt, Monsieur! You cannot just walk in…”

Crowley snarled at the guard and had the satisfaction of watching him slump to the floor in a dead faint. He stepped over the prone figure and swept further into the prison, bypassing numerous occupied cells with inhabitants who gawked at his passage.

"The Englishman?"

One of them pointed him in the right direction. Crowley moved on, passing guard after guard and leaving them all sprawled out unconscious, until at last he located his wayward slave.

“...please, you don’t understand!” Aziraphale’s frantic voice beckoned him from within one of the cells. “I’m not meant to _be_ here. I’m not even English!”

Someone guffawed at that. Crowley heard chains rattle. “My good sir,” an unfamiliar voice said, “if you're not English, then _I_ am not French. Now worry not! You won’t be in these chains come morning. I have you scheduled as first in line to be executed. I, Jean Claude, will be pulling the lever myself!”

“You’re making a mistake!” Aziraphale cried. “If I’m discorporated, I’ll end up back Down There, in my circle, and I’ll be punished and then interrogated and punished _again,_ and my master will be _furious…_ and he’ll take it out on all of you, I’m sure of it! He’s a monstrous creature, I think he orchestrated this whole revolution!”

“You are not making any sense at all,” Jean Claude said. “I think fear has made you hysterical.”

“Of course I’m hysterical! You’re not listening to me! There’s a demon out there, an actual demon from Hell! If you don’t let me go, you’ll all be in terrible danger!”

By now, Crowley had slipped into the cell, and he gave himself a moment to pose dramatically in the corner. “Careful, now,” he said. “Don’t give away _all_ my secrets.”

Aziraphale whipped around. The executioner remained frozen in place with a puzzled expression.

“Master!”

The angel did not sound happy to see him. Which was as it should be, really, but a tiny part of Crowley had hoped for a _little_ gratitude that he bothered to show up at all. He could have just stood back and let Aziraphale get beheaded, it would have served him right.

“Let’s go,” Crowley said, and the manacles around Aziraphale’s wrists took that as their cue to unlock themselves and dropped heavily to the floor.

But instead of following him out, Aziraphale immediately went to his knees.

“Oh, for—we don’t have time for this!”

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said, breathless with fear. “Please forgive my failure…”

“Will you _get up_ already?” Crowley hauled him up by his lapel, and with a click of his fingers, they materialized on the street just outside the Bastille. Now that they were outside, Crowley allowed his voice to raise as he dragged the miserable slave into a shadowed alleyway.

“One little errand, that’s all I asked! How the Heaven did you mess it up? I gave you miracles and everything!”

“I had to use them all,” Aziraphale said in apology. “Everything is so _different_ now, the Romans had a much better system, I miss it terribly. The humans at the ‘customs’ place kept saying I didn’t have the proper documentation, and then I didn’t know what currency to use, that took a few miracles to sort out, and I had a devil of a time finding a translator…”

Crowley groaned. “A _translator._ You couldn’t have mentioned you don't know French before I sent you off?”

Aziraphale huffed at him. _Huffed!_ At him! As if the whole sorry situation was somehow Crowley’s fault. “Well, do excuse me for trying to be useful! One does what one can to avoid displeasing their captor!”

“...more trouble than you’re worth, I _knew_ I should’ve gone with the shoe-licker…”

“Yes, that would have suited me as well!”

Fed up, Crowley shoved him up against the nearest wall and leaned in close. “Do you want me to give you back to Dagon? Cause I’ll do it, I’ll march right down there and throw you at her feet, tell her you need some retraining. No more nice warm baths for you, oh no, it’ll be back to square one, chained down in your circle and getting jabbed with red hot pokers!”

Aziraphale went a little green at that. He shook his head. “You… you wouldn't. You’d get into just as much trouble for taking me back!"

“Want to fuck around and find out how little I care?”

It should have been gratifying to watch the fight drain out of him, see that stubborn chin wobble as Aziraphale averted his gaze. Crowley was at a loss to understand why it made him feel all uncomfortable and squirmy inside.

“Forgive me, Master Crowley," Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley eyed him in suspicion, just to make sure that brief flash of mutiny was no longer an issue. It had been a bluff anyway. Dagon’s warning about keeping his slave in line was still very fresh. Aziraphale was his very own white elephant, which was doubly insulting since Crowley himself had come up with the concept of a white elephant gift and been given a commendation for it.

“There! There’s the Englishman!”

Aziraphale peered over his shoulder and blanched. “Oh dear.”

Crowley glanced back as they were approached by the executioner from the cell and two more guards, both gripping their swords and prepared to draw at a moment’s notice. Jean Claude clapped his hands and favored Crowley with a beaming smile.

“Ah, Monsieur! Thank you for capturing the runaway Englishman. We will take him from here.”

“What Englishman?” Crowley drawled. “I’m afraid the only one I see here is _you.”_

The pair of guards blinked in befuddlement. Looked at Aziraphale, in his simple blue coat and revolutionary colors. Then they looked back at Jean Claude, garbed head to toe in aristocratic finery, from his lacey cravat to his pink satin shoes.

Jean Claude looked down at himself. “Wait,” he said, alarmed. “I don’t… but these are not my clothes! How did…?”

The guards seized him. “Sorry to disturb you two,” one of them said, and together they dragged the former executioner off to the Bastille, his protests becoming increasingly desperate as he tried and failed to convince his buddies that he was not, in fact, the runaway Englishman they were looking for.

Crowley released the angel and straightened his own coat. “Right, that’s sorted.”

“How _could_ you?” Aziraphale said, visibly shaken. “That man…”

“Has already murdered almost a thousand people since all this started. Would have done even more tomorrow, including you. Believe me, his soul is already spoken for. No amount of repenting in this life would be enough for your lot to take him.”

“That’s…” Aziraphale hesitated and bit his lip. “Oh, that’s true enough, I suppose. Heaven wouldn’t have him now.”

“Come on. I've had enough of humanity for one night."

Aziraphale nodded and trailed after Crowley down the street, away from the prison and its doomed inhabitants.

* * *

Back at the townhouse, Crowley sent Aziraphale to wash off the grime from the prison cell while he sat in the parlour, feet propped up on the desk, and tried to decide if another drink was worth the effort of summoning and pouring it. What a godawful day. A terrible, no good, very bad day. Not nearly as bad as the fourteenth century, but he had a feeling this one would go down in history as The Day Everything Went To Shit.

Maybe he ought to just suck it up and take the angel back. Bless the consequences, Crowley would figure out some excuse. Say Aziraphale had heated his tea wrong or something, gain a reputation as a master who was difficult to please. But then, it would only be a matter of time before the Dark Council assigned him another slave. And another after that, and another after that, and soon enough they would realize he was not using those slaves as intended. Then would come the audits into his past projects, then the inquiries and interrogations, and then…

Crowley swiped at his face with a shaky hand and tried not to think of deep, dark pits and eternal suffering.

“Master Crowley?”

“What do you want?” Crowley grumbled. He rolled his head to the side to watch Aziraphale step into the room and shut the door behind him. He had discarded the coat and headscarf, leaving him in just trousers and shirt sleeves. Even his feet were bare. The light from the single candle on the desk made him look healthy for once, warm reds and oranges playing over his face and arms.

It took Crowley a moment to taste the fear thickening the air. He stared as Aziraphale stood before him, posture stiff, dull gaze fixed on the wall behind his shoulder.

“I’ve come to accept my punishment.”

 _What punishment?_ Crowley almost blurted out. He was glad he was still wearing his sunglasses or else there would have been no hiding his own terror and dread. He gulped. “Right. Your punishment. Thanks for the reminder.”

For what must have been the dozenth time that day, Aziraphale knelt before him. Unlike all the other times, there seemed to be a gravity and ceremony to it. No doubt he had suffered this sort of thing countless times since his capture. Knew exactly what to expect and how to face it with a modicum of dignity.

A shame Crowley couldn’t borrow some of that unflappable courage.

To stave off the inevitable, Crowley lowered his feet and gracefully slinked upright. Paced in a slow circle around the angel, let the silence and the anticipation do all the work for him. Aziraphale made no attempt to keep him in sight, but his full-body shudder when Crowley moved behind him spoke for itself. His fingers gripped the fabric of his trousers, knuckles white.

“You know what you’ve done,” Crowley said. He kept the tone appropriately low and menacing and hoped that would be enough to hide the incriminating quaver in his words. “You’ve _disappointed_ me.”

Aziraphale said nothing. The back of his neck looked oddly vulnerable, a thin stripe of pink skin between his collar and hairline. Crowley was struck by the bizarre urge to wrap him up in a blanket and nuzzle him there.

He licked his lips, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. What the Heaven was he supposed to do now? Dagon had mentioned caning, whipping, but that sounded like a lot of effort and an even bigger mess. And, well… Crowley wasn’t proud of this, but he had a bit of a weak stomach when it came to torture. The fourteenth century had only been the capstone of a very long list of bad experiences that put him off the usual demonic pastimes.

But he had no choice. He _had no choice._ If word got back to Beelzebub that he refused to discipline his slave… and he couldn’t trust Aziraphale to lie for him, not when any old demon could Compel the truth from his lips. So he just had to get on with it. Really, it was no big thing, Crowley was a demon, he had done plenty of unpleasant things in the name of getting the job done. This would be no different. The angel was _expecting_ it.

As he circled back around and passed in front of the desk, Crowley held his hand over the flat surface, and a gleaming array of knives and saws and other sharp implements shimmered into being, all laid out on an unnecessarily fancy red cloth. Even he didn’t know what half of them were used for. He was going by the memory of some things he had glimpsed during the Spanish Inquisition.

He thought he heard Aziraphale catch his breath. But when he looked, the angel’s expression remained stony, unaffected. Would he stay that way while Crowley was hurting him? Would he cry out? Beg for it to stop? Would he curse the demon or fight back? Crowley didn’t know what would be worse. He felt lightheaded, disconnected from his corporation, watching his fingers wrap around the handle of one of the knives and wishing he was anywhere but here.

“Take off your shirt.”

Crowley thought he was doing him a favor, since the angel seemed to like clothes so much. But Aziraphale pressed his lips together tightly and shot a murderous glare at Crowley’s boots. It took everything in him not to flinch back, and he had to remind himself that the angel didn’t have an ounce of holy power to his name right now. Crowley had all the power here.

Slowly, meticulously, Aziraphale unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide down his shoulders and arms, falling to the rug in a crumpled heap. Crowley only just managed to stifle the squeak that tried to escape him.

 _Great thing about angels,_ Dagon had said. _They heal fast._

Scars. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that Aziraphale would have scars. So many they were beyond counting, so many that they overlapped. Deep scratches all up and down his arms. Several very clear imprints of teeth on his shoulders and neck. Raised, criss-crossing lines along his shoulders and back from whipping after whipping. Crowley could see a few odd bumps where his ribs must have been broken and then forced to heal in an odd way, and one of his shoulders sloped a bit lower than the other, evidence of some permanent damage to the collarbone. None of it had been obvious earlier when he was buttoned up to the wrist and neck, only his hands and face visible, but there was nothing to shield him now, no way for Aziraphale to hide what Hell had done to him. It was all there, writ into the fabric of his corporation like ink on paper.

And the worst part, Crowley thought with slowly dawning horror, was that _all of this_ had only been done to this particular body. How many other bodies had Aziraphale been through? How many times had he suffered and died and then been shoved into a fresh, unblemished vessel to begin the process all over again?

Something on his back caught Crowley’s attention. When he finally got up the nerve to take a better look, he immediately wished he hadn’t.

He had never actually seen the binding runes before. Crowley only had a vague, theoretical idea of how they worked in the first place. The runes were branded into the base of an angel’s wings, which in turn linked each angel to their individual summoning circles in the depths of Hell. Those circles served as prison cells for the angels without masters, as well as a convenient place where discorporated slaves would pop in and be immediately detained, but it was the binding runes that served as the true chains, that kept their wings restricted to the Other Plane and forced obedience even when it was unwilling. If there was a way to erase or heal or otherwise get rid of the runes, Crowley had never heard of it. They were seared into an angel's essence, followed them from corporation to corporation, a permanent disfigurement.

Crowley could see Aziraphale’s binding runes now. One on each shoulder blade linked together with an ugly brand on his spine. The skin beneath had a shiny, blistered quality to it like the burns were still fresh despite being created nearly two thousand years ago. Crowley tried to imagine what that must have been like, to be held down as some cruel being marked him with _that,_ and then to live on in the knowledge that his wings were useless and would never again see the light of day. At least when his own wings had burned up and turned black with the Fall, Crowley had still been allowed to _keep_ them. He could still fly, still preen, still let them out to feel the sun and wind. Aziraphale had none of that.

Could an angel even be called an angel anymore without their wings?

His hands were shaking. The knife had vanished from his grip at some point, and Crowley could not have said where it went. Aziraphale seemed to sense that something wasn’t quite right. Though he remained hunched on his knees, shivering from the chill air, his head slowly began to turn in Crowley’s direction.

Crowley swooped in and gripped him by the jaw, just roughly enough to show he meant business. Aziraphale gasped and trembled in his grip, pulse fluttering beneath his fingers.

“You’re the first slave I’ve ever had, you know that?” Crowley hissed in his ear. “I had certain expectations going into this, and I have to say… so far? Not impressed. From the beginning, you’ve been insolent, stubborn, you’ve made no effort _at all_ to hide how much you despise me. I’m sure your other masters returned you for just those reasons. You should consider yourself lucky I’ve decided to give you another chance. _Look at me,_ Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale resisted the Compulsion for all of half a second before he was forced to give in. Even now, still, there was a little flicker of _something_ in his eyes. Defiance, or something close to it. Some foundation or conviction that Crowley doubted he could shake even if he had millennia to try.

“And,” Crowley said with appropriate gravitas, “you should consider yourself _very_ lucky… that I won’t be punishing you tonight.”

It seemed to take a moment for the words to sink in. Aziraphale’s furrowed his brow. “Master?”

Crowley released him. “I’m tired,” he declared and banished the knives and implements with a flick of his hand. “Not really in the mood. And it was your first day, I’ll give you some leeway. I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson. Oh, you can put your shirt back on.”

He strode to the door of the parlour while Aziraphale hurriedly donned his shirt and did up the buttons. “I’m going to bed,” he said over his shoulder. “You can… I dunno, keep watch ‘til morning. Make sure no revolutionaries come banging down the door. Oh, and you managed to arrange for my things to be shipped off, right?”

The poor angel looked so utterly confused by this turn of events. “I… yes, I did. They said they would pick up the crates tomorrow at noon and have them on a ship to London by the end of the week.”

“Great. Terrific. I’ll handle getting the two of us to London. Satan only knows what would happen if I left it to you.”

“Yes, Master. But…?”

Crowley cast him an exasperated look. _“What?”_

He expected Aziraphale to question him. He had no idea what he would say if Aziraphale questioned him. But the angel only looked at him, still on his knees where the demon had left him. Crowley watched his throat bob once before he bowed his head. “Nothing.”

“Right. ‘Night, then.”

“...thank you, Master.”

Crowley pretended not to hear him. He didn't have the energy for another admonishment on No Thank-Yous Allowed. Instead he stomped upstairs to his room, snapped himself into something comfortable and collapsed face first onto the bed.

And spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, listening intently to the barely audible sounds of Aziraphale moving about the house, and hoped this small act of mercy would not come back to bite him in the backside.


	4. Major Design Flaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I cannot stress enough how little historical research was done for this chapter. Why did I base this story in the 18th century again? (Oh right, the Bastille scene.)
> 
> Chapter Specific Tags: Please be advised, this chapter contains Vomiting and Panic Attacks.

_One day,_ Crowley thought miserably, curled up on his narrow bed in the ship cabin with a bucket clutched to his chest, _I’m going to revamp the entire travel industry. It’s long overdue. I’ll bloody teach humans to fly, if that’s what it takes. Have them build machines that can zip around the world in less than a day. Stagecoaches that can roll themselves along without any horses. Shoes with pillows on the inside so my feet don’t feel like I walked on sharp rocks…_

The ship lurched on another wave. Crowley retched into the bucket and felt very sorry for himself. He had made the mistake of booking their passage straight to London rather than stopping in Dover, which meant the crossing would take at least two days. Maybe longer now that this storm had blown in unexpectedly. Crowley had learned the hard way that trying to miracle the weather in one place could invariably lead to deadly consequences in some other place (major design flaw, if you asked him), so he had no choice but to suffer through the endless rocking and heaving. He couldn’t even sleep through it without the risk of rolling right off his bunk.

Well, at least one thing was going right. The slave hadn’t given him any more trouble since the snafu in Paris. Come to think of it, Aziraphale had proven remarkably useful these past few days. He had almost seamlessly fallen into the role of Crowley’s manservant without needing to be asked—agreeable and obedient, if a bit quiet, and if he was struggling to adapt to how the world had changed since Roman times, it didn’t show. Watching him interact with the humans, it was obvious Aziraphale had spent a significant amount of time on Earth before his enslavement. Crowley’s fellow demons could have learned a thing or two from this one on how to blend in.

It probably helped that Crowley had granted him a _very_ small allowance of miracles per day, just to keep himself out of trouble. As far as he knew, Aziraphale had only used them to keep his manicure pristine, but it still made Crowley nervous. Even minor miracles could have a major impact if the wielder knew what they were doing. He wouldn’t normally credit an angel with an overabundance of imagination, but Crowley was beginning to get the sense that Aziraphale was not like the others of his kind. He hadn’t tried to smite his master yet, for one. Nor did he look down in disdain upon the humans he walked among. Rather the opposite. Crowley had seen him _smiling_ at a baby in its mother’s arms the other day, waggling his fingers and making cutesy faces when he thought no one was looking.

So he liked humans. That was… unexpected. But still, an angel was an angel, and Crowley had seen enough scorched cities and biblical floods in his existence, he knew better than to trust any agent of Above.

The ship tilted again, the other way this time. Crowley braced a hand on the wall so he wouldn’t bang his head and clumsily set the bucket down. “Aziraphale?” he whined.

The door opened. From his post stationed just outside, Aziraphale poked his head in. “Yes, Master?”

“How much longer before we get there, do you reckon?”

“I’m… not sure. I could go ask the captain?”

Crowley let his head flop back on the pillow with a groan. “Yeah, do that for me, would you? Oh also, do you know what the humans are doing for seasickness these days?”

“I’ll, er, make some inquiries,” Aziraphale said and left as quickly as he had come. Seemed in a hurry to put some distance between them. Crowley wondered mournfully if the angel had just been waiting for an excuse. Could be plotting to sink the ship, for all he knew. Send Crowley to the bottom of the sea and take that as his chance to escape… not that there was anywhere _to_ escape in the middle of the ocean. What was he going to do, _fly?_

His stomach lurched for an entirely different reason, the binding runes still very fresh in his memory. His own wings gave a sympathetic twitch in the Other Plane. Crowley rolled onto his side and pressed his face to the sheets, inhaling the lavender scent and willing it to somehow drown out the taste of bile on his tongue.

It wasn’t _pity,_ he told himself weakly. Demons didn’t do pity. It was… morbid fascination. Like seeing a hellhound with three legs. Yeah, you might feel a little sympathy at first, but then the hellhound would eat you and you’d remember why it was better to leave it alone. He couldn’t forget that Aziraphale was a _Principality,_ which was more than a few ranks above Crowley as far as sheer power went. Those pretty manicured hands had probably struck down hundreds of demons since the Beginning.

And now all of that raw strength was at his disposal. It should have been a heady thing, a temptation even he couldn’t resist. And yet here he was obsessing over all the terrible things Aziraphale could do to _him_ if the angel was ever in a mood.

A scuffling sound outside his door made him jerk back to alertness, every muscle tensed and ready to fling himself under the bed.

“—quiet! He might hear us!”

“—won’t matter anyway. Vampires sleep during the day.”

“You don’t know that he’s a vampire!”

Kids. At least three of them, if he had to guess, crouched just outside his room and doing a terrible job of being sneaky. Crowley smiled to himself and settled in to listen.

“Of _course_ he’s a vampire. All he does is stay in the cabin all day. He doesn’t go out in the sun or eat anything…”

“That’s because his servant brings him food.”

“Don’t be daft. It’s almost the nineteenth century, nobody has _servants_ anymore.”

“Rich people do! Uncle Toby says he’s rich and that’s why he and his servant get their own room when everybody else has to share.”

“So he’s _not_ a vampire…?”

“A vampire could be rich. If I was a vampire, I’d spend a few centuries just getting rich, and then I’d _stay_ rich cause I wouldn’t have to spend my money on stupid things like food and.. uh, taxes?”

“If _I_ was a rich vampire, I’d buy my own boat and sail the seas and rob other rich people, and then I’d be a famous vampire pirate!”

“Don’t say pirate! My uncle says it’s bad luck!”

 _“You_ just said pirate.”

“Stop saying pirate!”

Crowley was just deciding it might be fun to sneakily miracle the door open a crack—not to actually scare them, just to give them a little glimpse of a strange man with snake eyes and let it feed their imaginations for weeks—when he heard rapid, heavier footsteps approach.

“No, _no!”_ Aziraphale admonished loudly. “Children, you must not go in that door! My… ah, my associate is resting, you mustn't disturb him.”

“We weren’t gonna go inside! Honest, sir!”

“Is your friend a vampire? Cause Roy thinks he is, but I don’t think he’s right…”

Aziraphale spluttered. “A _vampire?_ No, no, don’t be ridiculous. He’s just… he's very ill and needs his rest. Also, he's a leper! Yes, very contagious, whatever you do, you must stay _very_ far away…”

Crowley snickered as he listened to Aziraphale frantically shooing the children away. But the amusement died when it occurred to him _why_ the angel was making such a fuss. Because, obviously, Crowley was a demon and therefore _evil_ and not to be trusted around little humans. He was probably worried Crowley would maim them or traumatize them or something, as if the likes of Crowley couldn’t possibly have a soft spot for the curious little buggers. (And as if there weren’t plenty of angels who saw nothing wrong with killing and traumatizing a few children just to scare their parents into obedience. Hypocrisy at its finest, right there.)

He scowled and yanked the sheet over his head just as the door opened again. “Master? I’ve spoken to the captain.”

“And?”

“Ah, well, he… said some very rude words and told me to wait below. He said ‘we’ll get there when we damn well get there’.”

Crowley scoffed under his breath. “Of course.”

“And as for the seasickness,” Aziraphale added, “he suggested I throw you overboard if it bothered me so much.”

“Ha.” Crowley tugged down the sheet, smirking. “Gonna take his advice?”

The joke fell a bit flat. Aziraphale avoided his gaze and held out the steaming teacup in his hands. “Ginger tea. It helped me back when… well, humans use it as a cure-all for stomach ailments. I thought there was no harm in trying.”

Crowley eyed the innocuous little teacup and debated the odds of it being poisoned. “Eh, why not?” He took the teacup, blowing on it briefly before he knocked it all back like a shot.

“Oh, I’m not sure that’s…”

 _“Blegh!”_ He had been expecting the pungent ginger root and so was completely caught off guard by the slice of lemon that ended up in his mouth. Crowley plucked it out and held it up in a silent question.

“...just thought it might help the taste,” Aziraphale mumbled.

Crowley grunted. “Does, a bit. Thoughtful of you.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything to that, just nodded. “If that’s all, Master, I’ll return to my post…”

“Hang on.” Crowley set the teacup aside and nodded at the opposite bunk. “Might as well stay and keep me company. Not like you’re doing anything useful out there.”

Aziraphale paused. “As my master commands,” he said. He took a seat on the other bunk and spent an inordinate amount of time trying to sit up straight despite how impossible it was with the top bunk right above his head. At length he changed his mind and sat on the floor instead with his back braced against the bed.

“Comfy?”

Aziraphale settled his hands on his bent knees and nodded.

“Good.” Crowley picked up the bucket again, just in case. The wind howled outside, accompanied by frantic shouts from the sailors, but in here all was quiet. 

Crowley looked at the angel, but Aziraphale was looking resolutely at the floor. “So,” he said, “been on many ships like this? When you were on Earth before?”

Aziraphale thought it over and shrugged. “A few, yes.”

He waited for the angel to elaborate. Nothing. Crowley tried another tactic. “You ever meet any interesting humans while you were working as a Principality?”

“...I find many of them interesting,” Aziraphale said. “You'll have to elaborate.”

Crowley sighed. Why had he bothered? Of course Aziraphale wasn’t going to just sit here and have a chat with him, not of his own free will. He clawed his way upright and nodded at the little table on the corner. “What about cards? Do you play cards? I want to play cards.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Cards?”

A few minutes later, they were hunched over the table, uncomfortable stools under their bums, as Crowley tried to explain the rules of Sixty-Six to an angel who was looking more and more puzzled by the moment.

“Alright, look just… you’ll figure it out as we go,” Crowley said and dealt the cards.

“I’ve never seen these sorts of cards before,” Aziraphale said, closely studying eight of spades. He sighed. “There’s so much I've missed. Things change so quickly on Earth, you could blink your eyes and miss entire generations.”

“Yeah, that’s the trouble with humans,” Crowley muttered. “They go too fast for the likes of us. One minute, they’re pounding seeds to make bread, and next they’ve gone and built a palace where that wheat farm used to be.”

Aziraphale nodded and hummed a little sadly. “I was meant to guard them. Principality, you know, it’s sort of the whole point. To guide them, protect them, so they can reach their full potential. Now I can’t… there’s nothing I can do for them now.”

Crowley flicked his eyes up, then back down to his cards. “Is that what you were doing in Pompeii?”

“...it wasn’t meant to erupt so soon,” Aziraphale said. “Not that day. I must have missed a memo or… or they moved it ahead of schedule, I don’t know _what_ happened. I was supposed to appear in a vision to a few key humans, to test if they would heed God’s word and evacuate the city before…”

Huh, odd. Crowley would have thought Heaven had better organization than that. At the very least, they should have made more of an effort to get their agent out before the volcano went up. Seemed like the sort of oversight his lot would do.

“Ah, forgive me,” Aziraphale said with a shake of his head. “I’m sure none of this is of interest to you.”

Crowley bit his tongue to keep from blurting out that _any_ conversation, even about Heaven's bureaucracy, was of interest to him. He had a lot of questions about how the whole system worked. But… no, no sense in pushing too hard, he might scare Aziraphale back into silence. Instead he angled for what he thought was a harmless subject change. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword back at Eden?”

Aziraphale fumbled and dropped one of his cards on the floor. “Um…”

“Yeah, I remember all the guards did, they were flaming like anything,” Crowley said. “What ever happened to yours? Did Hell confiscate it or…?”

Aziraphale mumbled something.

“Hm? What?”

“I, I don’t… I don’t want to… tell you.”

Crowley looked up and grinned at the angel’s cagey expression. “Oh, _this_ ought to be good. What, did you lose it? Set it aside, forget where you put it?”

“I’m _not_ going to tell you!” Aziraphale burst out. He looked very frightened for a split second after his outburst, but set his jaw. “I’m not going to tell you,” he said, more quietly.

Crowley frowned. “You know, I could always _make_ you tell me,” he said. “There’s no point being stubborn about it. Why not make it easier on yourself?”

Aziraphale set his cards down and folded his hands on the table, eyes respectfully lowered. “If my manner displeases you, Master, then I apologize. I will accept any punishment you deem fit.”

Oh, the bloody _cheek_ of this angel. Sitting there all meek and defiant and looking at Crowley in a way that very much dared him to do his absolute worst. Crowley wanted to hit him, he really, really did. Better yet, he wanted to Compel the truth from him and have done with it. It wouldn’t exactly be hard, just say his name and ask a question, no big thing, no moral dilemmas to speak of.

But… no, that wouldn't work. He _needed_ Aziraphale to start being more compliant if he didn’t want Head Office asking questions. But clearly pain and threat of punishment wasn’t enough to keep this particular slave in line. Not even Hell’s greatest torments had managed to put a dent in that stubborn streak after all these years. Crowley had to go with another tactic.

Luckily, he had already been given something to work with.

Crowley shrugged and slouched back in his chair. “Alright, that’s fine. Keep your secrets, I don’t mind.”

Aziraphale gaped at him. “You don’t?”

“Nnnnope.” He pretended to be studying his cards. “Oh, by the way, could you go find one of those kids and bring them here? Any of them will do, I'm not picky. Make sure nobody sees you.”

The angel froze up. “Why?” Aziraphale demanded.

“Don’t worry about it. You don’t need to know. In fact…” Crowley let his voice deepen and his eyes glow behind his sunglasses, just for the sake of cheap theatrics. “Probably better if you don’t ask.”

Aziraphale stood up so fast that his little stool skidded into the bunk behind him. “No!” he cried, stricken. “You can’t, you… you _fiend…”_

“Aziraphale, I order you to—”

“Please!” And _there_ it was, finally, Aziraphale dropped to his hands and knees in complete surrender. “Forgive me, I’m sorry for my insolence, it won’t happen again! Just don’t… please don’t punish the _children,_ they haven’t done anything! Have mercy, I beg of you!”

 _Once a guardian, always a guardian,_ Crowley thought. He set his cards down and crossed his arms and legs, doing his best to embody a villainous lord looking down upon his lowly subject. “Is that the last time you’ll talk back to me?”

“Yes, I swear it!”

“The last time you’ll refuse to obey an order?”

“Yes, _please…”_

“Please _what?”_

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, Master Crowley. I am your slave, I am lowly and unworthy, I exist only to serve you. I know my place, and it is here at the feet of my Lord and Master.”

Well, if _that_ wasn’t the most uncomfortable declaration Crowley had ever received. But he had a role to play as well, so he pretended to think it over, watching Aziraphale tremble and bite his lip.

Crowley nodded. “Fine. Sit back down. Let’s get back to the card game.”

The angel let out a shuddering breath, slowly rising and returning to his chair. And Crowley had a moment of bitter reflection that if he was really a _proper_ demon, he would make Aziraphale bring him one of those children anyway, just to really drive the point home that _he_ was the one in charge, that he could do exactly as he pleased and no one was in a position to stop him.

“...oh, calm down,” Crowley said when Aziraphale just sat there and didn’t pick up his cards again. “You’re still learning. You’re allowed to make mistakes as long as you learn from them. I’m nice like that.”

“And what happens when your patience runs out, Master?” Aziraphale said, still refusing to raise his head.

“Pray you don’t find out.” When he still made no move to rejoin the game, Crowley sighed and gathered the cards up. “Never mind, I’ll just play solitaire.”

As he began to set up the game for himself, Aziraphale murmured unexpectedly, “I can see why they all fear you.”

Crowley paused. “Who?”

“The demons. The dukes. The other slaves. Everyone in Hell, really. They say…”

He hesitated. Crowley leaned forward, far more attentive now. “What do they say about me?”

“They say,” Aziraphale said carefully, “that being on Earth has changed you. Made you something else. The sway you hold, the influence… the unimaginable horrors you’ve unleashed upon the humans… some think you could rival Satan himself with the power you hold.”

Crowley almost bit through his tongue trying not to burst out laughing.

“And the _torments_ you’ve invented.” Aziraphale’s voice wavered just a little, and he started wringing the hem of his shirt again. “We… all the slaves live in fear of the days when your reports come in. Because whatever new methods you’ve come up with is immediately tested and put to use on us.”

Oh, it was a good thing he wasn’t looking at Crowley right then because he would have seen a very, _very_ unhappy demon flashing back through centuries of embellished reports and having a miniature breakdown. All of those scars he had seen on Aziraphale’s corporation… had he been indirectly responsible for some of them? _All_ of them? Oh, he was going to be sick, for reasons that had nothing to do with the ocean.

“I only mean to say, I know what you’re capable of,” Aziraphale said softly. “When you chose me as your slave, I knew what to expect. My previous masters could never compare.”

“...so if you’re so afraid of me, why do you keep pushing my buttons?” Crowley asked, genuinely curious.

Aziraphale finally looked up with a bitter smile. “You’re far too good at your job, I suppose. The way you speak to me is like… it makes me careless. Is that how you tempted Eve? By appearing so friendly and harmless and getting her to lower her guard?”

“Wha, _harmless?”_ Crowley said in affront. “I don’t look harmless! I'll have you know, most humans find me very intimidating!”

“Oh, some of them do, I’m sure…”

“All of them! They all find me intimidating! I’m not going to just sit here and take this _slander…”_

The cabin door burst open unexpectedly. A red-faced, furious captain looked in at them. _“Leprosy?!”_ he roared.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked at Crowley. And he could tell they were both thinking the same thing. _Fuck._

* * *

In the end, they weren’t thrown overboard or quarantined in the brig. Aziraphale did some very fast talking to convince the captain that the children had misheard him, and Crowley employed a hasty miracle after the man left to make him forget why he had wandered below deck in the first place. By then, Crowley had lost all desire for conversation, and Aziraphale had given him a lot to think about, so he sent the angel back to his post outside the door. And regretted it a few hours later when he started to feel sick again and realized the ginger tea had actually helped. But after scaring the angel so badly, Crowley felt awkward asking Aziraphale for anything, so he wallowed in misery instead.

In a way, it was good to hear some confirmation that Hell thought so highly of him. It was exactly what Crowley had been going for with all of those reports. Taking the credit for every war and plague and uprising and genocide in existence, from the Spanish Inquisition to the French Revolution, had clearly paid off in a big way. Not to mention pretending to invent things like gambling and alcohol and procrastination. They loved him Down There. All of those souls, who would have died and ended up in Hell regardless of outside influence, got counted toward his overall quota, and Crowley looked like a genius of his craft without needing to lift a finger.

But then, there was that saying among humans. The bigger they are, the harder they… well. He had to keep it up, was the point. At least until after the Apocalypse when all of the paperwork would be filed for the last time, and he would be lauded for his hard work and given all the titles and commendations he could carry. The Serpent of Eden, the Great Deceiver, that was him, and nobody would ever know just how accurate the title was.

(Of course, that was assuming Hell won the final battle, and he didn’t end up in a bath of holy water at the hands of Aziraphale’s lot. Just one of the many things he tried not to dwell on in his day-to-day life.)

The storm let up in time, and by early the next morning, the ship was pulling into port. Crowley had never been more grateful to step onto a dock on wobbly legs and see the busy, stinky streets of London. Really, the fact that humanity kept learning and then _forgetting_ how to do indoor plumbing was unbelievable. Did they just enjoy stepping in their own waste?

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said behind him. “It’s… the buildings are so tall now. Look at all of the people!”

“Look at all of the _shit.”_ Crowley stepped around a little yapping dog and the puddle it had just left and strode down the street. Both sides were lined with market stalls selling fish and other sundries, and dozens upon dozens of humans going about the business of buying and selling them. It was, strangely, a comforting sight. Every city in every era that was near water had a market just like this. He cast a look of longing at the warehouses where his collection was being stored, but he needed a place to put it all before he could reclaim it.

“Right. Lots to do, angel, try to keep up. First thing I like to do in a new place is absorb the local color. We ought to change our clothes, too, don’t want to walk around looking like a couple of tourists…”

It happened all in an instant. Crowley heard the little dog yapping and growling behind him. Then he tasted petrichor on his tongue, heard a _clap_ of holy thunder that left him deafened, and Crowley threw himself headfirst into a barrel full of fish as the slightly overcast day lit up like a supernova. The smiting was so close that it singed his hair and left him hyperventilating, and he cowered in his meager shelter and listened to the humans screaming and running around, waiting for the inevitable second smite that would finish him off.

It didn’t happen, obviously. Aziraphale must have used every ounce of celestial power Crowley had granted him for that one strike.

Cautiously, he poked his head out.

Aziraphale stood in the middle of the street, staring at a blackened spot on the cobbles where the dog had once been. He looked very pale and shocked at himself and seemed not to notice all of the stunned and frightened humans staring at him, whispering among themselves.

Crowley erupted from the barrel, fish spilling every which way. “Did you jussst—!” He couldn’t even get it together enough to control his hissing, he was so frazzled. “Did you _sssmite_ that dog?”

Aziraphale looked at him with wide eyes. “I, I didn’t…”

“You just disintegrated a dog!” Crowley shouted. “What’d that poor thing ever do to you?”

“I didn’t smite it!” Aziraphale cried. He pressed his hands to his mouth and fretted over the little wisps of smoke rising from the cobbles. “I just, er… I sent it very far away.”

 _“How_ far away?”

“Um.” Aziraphale looked up. “The moon?”

Cursing under his breath, Crowley stumbled out of the barrel, feet slipping and sliding all over from the fish underfoot. Aziraphale shrank from his approach.

“Bring it back!” Crowley said. “Right now!”

“What, the dog?”

“No, the moon. _Of_ _course_ the dog!”

“I haven’t got any more miracles—”

Crowley snapped his fingers. Aziraphale swayed and wheezed like he had been punched in the gut, but recovered quickly and pointed at the street. With a faint _pop,_ the dog reappeared, whining in distress and covered in moon dust, but otherwise no worse for its interstellar journey. It sneezed once, shook out its coat and ran off on shaky, stumbling legs.

That taken care of, Crowley looked around at the gawking humans on all sides and had a brief flashback to more than a few witch burnings he had been unfortunate enough to get caught up in. Should he erase their memories? It was a _lot_ of people, not the sort of thing he could get away with without putting in a report, and how was Crowley supposed to explain that he had purposely given his slave the power to send a dog to the moon and back?

“Just act natural,” Crowley hissed as he straightened his coat and strode away as quickly as possible, Aziraphale hurrying along behind. The humans let them pass, thankfully, giving the two apparent Frenchmen a very wide berth. Someone asked where the odd lightning had come from, and someone else mentioned going to find the police, and Crowley walked faster until he found one of the coaches for hire lined up along the street awaiting customers. A wave of his hand made the coachman forget about the loud noise he had heard and sit back down.

“Where to, sir?”

“Just drive,” Crowley said, and a handful of crisp banknotes ensured they set off at a suitably fast pace once he and Aziraphale were inside. He hunkered down in his seat, instinctively trying to hide as much as possible and hoping against Satan that no one in that crowd had gotten a good look at either of them.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said wretchedly. “I didn’t mean to draw attention. It… the dog startled me, is all.”

Crowley rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. “Can’t take you anywhere, I swear,” he muttered.

“I will do better in the future.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that.”

“...are you going to punish me?”

Crowley grimaced and hoped Aziraphale took it for annoyance. He _was_ annoyed and embarrassed, but mostly he was scared out of his wits and struggling to convince his body that he didn’t have a bladder with which to piss himself. “What do you want me to do, eh? Stop the coach here and have you publicly flogged?”

Aziraphale ducked his head. “If that is your wish…”

“No, no, it’s _not_ what i wish!” Crowley retorted. He snapped his fingers decisively. “No more miracles for you. Not until you’ve earned them back. And you’d _better_ _behave_ for the rest of the day, or else we’ll revisit that flogging thing. Understood?”

“Yes, Master. Please forgive me.”

“Good, then.” He slumped in his seat, arms folded. “How does a tiny thing like that startle a Principality? Do you not like dogs or something?”

The angel would not look him in the eye. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t like dogs.”

Crowley frowned. He had a feeling there was something Aziraphale was holding back, but blessed if he had any idea what it was. Maybe all angels disliked dogs. Maybe a dog had chewed on the wrong halo and earned the wrath of Heaven for its entire species. Either way, Crowley made a mental note to keep any and all small creatures far away from his smite-happy slave in the future.

* * *

One coach ride and change of clothes later (yes, Crowley was aware of how that sounded, shut up), he and Aziraphale stepped out of the coach in Mayfair looking like a pair of proper Englishmen. Crowley had been studying the humans they passed very closely, gauging what was in fashion and what wasn’t, what he could get away with as far as his personal taste, and formed a solid baseline for the kind of human he would pretend to be. The coat and breeches he wore were black, naturally, with knee-high leather boots and a stormy grey waistcoat that was sinfully soft under his fingers. The whole ensemble was tailored to make him look slimmer, talker, a striking silhouette among the social elite. His hair had trimmed itself very short for the first time in an age, and on a whim he gave himself a silver-handled cane and a bright red cravat for a pop of color. He liked accessories.

“Oh, good Heavens!”

“Such language, angel,” Crowley said, turning to grin at his companion. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice, too busy tugging at his lavishly embroidered waistcoat and studying his reflection in the window of a nearby shop. Crowley had _meant_ to coordinate their colors, but his imagination apparently couldn’t picture the angel in anything but beige. Aziraphale was all beige and tan and brown from head to toe, with crisp white stockings and shoes that looked suspiciously similar to the ones he had lost to the guillotine. He looked like a comfortable sofa that had sprouted legs and started walking around.

He was also, inexplicably, wearing an enormous powdered wig on his head.

“Huh,” Crowley said to himself, “wonder where that came from?”

Aziraphale plucked off the wig and shot Crowley a very unamused look.

“Well, I mean, it doesn't look _that_ bad. Aren’t angels supposed to have heavenly curls?”

He tossed the wig in the gutter.

“Alright, fine, the silent treatment it is.” Crowley gestured for Aziraphale to walk beside him as they strolled along. None of the humans looked at them twice, so Crowley considered the wardrobe change a job well done. “As I was _saying_ before I was so rudely interrupted…”

Aziraphale had the grace to look apologetic.

“...I like taking a few days to absorb the culture before I get down to business. Can’t properly tempt humans until you understand what makes ‘em tic.”

“You’re going to tempt someone?” Aziraphale said, sounding highly alarmed.

“Well, not _right_ this minute. Later, when I have orders. In the meantime, we ought to work on our cover stories, figure out a place to live, establish a social circle… the usual. I’m sure you’ve done this before. Any ideas?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer at first. His gaze kept drifting to the windows of the shops they passed. One in particular seemed to catch his interest, a little secondhand bookshop with shelves upon shelves of old books. Someone walked out the door with their nose between the pages, and for an amusing moment Crowley really thought Aziraphale was about to wander off after them and pluck the book from their hands.

Crowley caught sight of his own reflection in the window smiling fondly and made himself change it to a haughty scowl. “Oi,” he said.

The angel snapped his attention back. “Sorry! So sorry, Master Crowley. I was distracted.”

“What, never seen a book before?”

“Is that what they’re called?” Aziraphale asked. “I’d worked in a number of libraries before… well, _before._ But it was all scrolls and clay tablets and the like. I’ve never seen paper bound in quite that manner.”

“Oh yeah, they’ve been doing that for ages,” Crowley said. “You missed the printing press being invented. Humans don’t actually need to write things by hand anymore, they’ve got machines now. They can print off hundreds of copies at a go.”

“Oh, how efficient! But what do the scribes do?”

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno. Work the machines, I imagine. Come on, let’s stop in here.”

He steered them into an upscale cafe, the kind of place where two men-shapes beings sit around and chat for hours without drawing any undue attention. Crowley had always liked the atmosphere to be found in a place like this. It was fun to slip into the role of an Important Human discussing Important Things over coffee, and meanwhile no one would have any idea they were in the presence of Supernatural Beings speaking of Matters Beyond Their Comprehension.

“Window table alright with you?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. He seemed petrified by the sight of all those crowded tables and the humans talking and laughing over them. Crowley impatiently led him along by the elbow and almost rolled his eyes at how the angel jerked at his touch.

 _“Relax,_ will you? They’re just humans, they won’t bite.”

Aziraphale made a little garbled noise in his throat, but sat down. Crowley signaled over the waiter and rattled off an order of coffee and biscuits and two slices of cake, then picked up a newspaper someone had left on the next table over and perused the headlines.

“You know, the whole printing press thing was all well and good, but I sort of miss the days when everyone was illiterate and they had to get their news secondhand from the local gossip. A demon could cause a lot of trouble with that system. Hm, maybe I should look into getting in the newspaper business. One wrong headline could cause all kinds of damage.”

Still nothing. He really did seem to be giving Crowley the silent treatment. Well, Crowley thought petulantly, two could play at that game. He buried his nose in the newspaper and pretended to be absorbed in the sports column.

Ten minutes later, after they had been served the coffee and biscuits, Crowley gave up and set the newspaper aside with a sigh. “Are you still mad about the wig? It’s not like I made you keep it.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no,” he mumbled. He had his hands in his lap, worrying the cloth napkin so much that it was in danger of ripping. “Forgive me. I only…”

He trailed off, eyes darting all over the place but resolutely avoiding Crowley. Odd. He had seemed fine before. Crowley wondered guiltily if maybe the threat of a flogging had been too much. He wanted Aziraphale to respect and fear him, yes, but not to the point of going utterly mute.

“Here, try this,” Crowley said and nudged a slice of cake in his direction. “I’m really not much for eating, but my stomach’s still a little queasy from the boat. Food helps recalibrate things, I find.”

Aziraphale looked at him like Crowley had asked him to perform an obscene act. “I… I am an angel,” he said, faltering. “I do not… sully my body with gross matter.”

“Well, I’m not eating by myself, that just looks weird.” Crowley popped a biscuit in his mouth and washed it down with a long sip of coffee. “Just have a bite.”

He went back to reading the paper and pretended not to watch as Aziraphale dropped his gaze to the cake. He spent quite a number of minutes staring it down before he picked up his fork, gingerly poking at the frosting and only taking a miniscule sliver on the tip of the tines. Then even _more_ dithering with the fork less than a centimeter from his lips, visibly steeling himself. Crowley couldn’t exactly blame him, he had been much the same in the very beginning, before he took his first bite of freshly baked bread and realized he was missing out.

Aziraphale slipped the little bite of cake into his mouth, chewing slowly. He still looked a little peaky, a little put off by the taste, but there might be hope for him yet.

“There, see?” Crowley said. “That wasn’t so bad.”

The fork fell to the floor with a clatter. Crowley looked up just in time to shove his chair backward right before the angel lurched up and projectile vomited all over the table.

“What the H—!”

Aziraphale collapsed to his knees.

“Oh shit, Aziraphale!” Crowley abandoned both chair and newspaper and came around the table, gathering the angel up in his arms so he wouldn’t face plant into the vomit. The whole cafe was staring at them in shock, but Crowley couldn’t spare a thought for the scene they were making.

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale flinched and buried his face in his hands. His breaths were beginning to quicken, chest heaving. “No, please no,” he said hoarsely. “Please Master, I’m sorry, don’t make me eat, I can’t… don’t make me eat.”

“Easy, easy, just calm down,” Crowley said, for all the good that would do. He looked around at the humans again, some of which were beginning to stand and approach and ask if he needed help. “People are looking. Aziraphale, I need you to _calm down.”_

“I can’t, please, I can’t!” Aziraphale wailed and drew even more eyes to them. They could probably hear him out on the street. “I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me, I _can’t!”_

“Sir, do you need any help?”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and time halted in this little bubble of reality, the humans locked in place and completely oblivious. He would figure out how to explain it to Head Office later.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, but the angel only moaned and shuddered, and he was still breathing way too fast in a way that didn’t sound quite right. Was it possible to discorporate from breathing too fast? Crowley pressed a hand to his back and was instantly alarmed by the frantic fluttering of his heart.

If Aziraphale discorporated now… oh, Crowley didn’t even want to _think_ about the consequences. Not to mention the paperwork.

“Aziraph…” Crowley stopped when scorching heat flared beneath his hand from the binding runes on Aziraphale’s back. Oh, he could have hit himself, he was an _idiot._ Crowley kept saying his _name,_ kept Compelling him when he was in no state to obey. No one ever calmed down just by telling them to calm down. And each time he reinforced the Compulsion, it was only making everything worse.

“Okay, scratch that, forget everything I just said. Just go to sleep, can you do that for me?” Crowley laid his fingers on Aziraphale’s temple and laced the words with a whisper of temptation. _Peace, calm, safe,_ he suggested underneath it all. “Go to sleep. Don’t worry about anything else, just _sleep,_ angel. Go to sleep.”

He was fighting it. Crowley could feel it, feel him resisting the temptation. At his full angelic strength, it might have been possible, but right now Aziraphale didn’t even have it in him to escape from Crowley’s arms. Slowly, so slowly, his breathing deepened and his hands went limp and hung at his sides. His expression was still locked in an unhappy grimace, but at least his eyes were closed now, muscles lax with slumber.

Crowley grabbed a napkin from the table to clean him up and refused to acknowledge the sudden urge to mantle his wings and growl at anything that came too close. He was a demon, after all, it was perfectly natural to feel possessive of his property. Nothing weird at all about sitting here and cradling his unconscious slave and wanting to strangle all of those previous masters for taking such a joyful, clever, opinionated angel and turning him into _this._ This frail, panicky shadow that censored his words and flinched at quick movements and lived in terror of his next misstep that would lead to pain and humiliation.

“He’s _mine_ now,” Crowley hissed at no one. He looked down, and then looked up as well for good measure. “You hear me? You let this happen to him, you don’t get to have him back. He’s _mine.”_


	5. Be Strong, Saith My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, real life has been a real b*tch lately.
> 
> Please be advised, this chapter contains references and flashbacks depicting Violence, Torture, Burning/Branding and Forced Eating and Vomiting. Also in the present narrative, there is Brief Suicidal Ideation and Major Character Injury and Drug Overdose. (And since I’m a total weenie when it comes to torture, this chapter is probably as bad as it’s going to get, lmao).

Aziraphale did not wake up right away. After half an hour, when it became apparent that the temptation to sleep had worked a little _too_ well, Crowley wasted another miracle to clean up the mess in the cafe, alter one or two memories and unfreeze time. Then he gathered Aziraphale up in his arms and whisked them both to the nearest hotel where a room was ready and waiting (to the utter confusion of the staff). It was a decent enough place, nice river views, and the towels smelled like lemons.

Not that Crowley purposely buried his face in the lemony towels to calm himself down. That was _not_ something he made a habit of. Just… just this once. While Aziraphale lay tucked in bed snoring away, Crowley huddled in the corner and hyperventilated into the towel and tried to psych himself up for what he knew would happen next. Aziraphale would no doubt be expecting dire consequences when he woke up, for the dog and the cake and a million other things that Crowley had so far failed to take him to task for. Never mind that a large portion of it had been completely beyond his control, and if anyone was to blame, it was Crowley for having no idea what he was doing.

There was no getting around it. He would have to actually hurt the angel this time. _Really_ hurt him. No more futzing around being a pathetic excuse for a master. The slave had done wrong, and now he would pay for it. Simple as that.

He just… Crowley had to get into the proper mindset first. As the hours passed and the day lapsed into evening and then night, he paced around the limited floor space and imbibed three whole bottles of wine, then sobered himself partway and allowed another glass and a half to take the edge off. He practiced his Menacing Demon voice in the mirror, then changed his mind and added in a bit of Sibilant Serpent, then gave up and decided to play it by ear.

“Why do you have to make this so hard, eh?” Crowley grumbled at his slumbering companion. He gestured with his glass and accidentally slopped wine on his shoes. “Bugger. ‘S just… it’s not like it’s _hard,_ is it? Just keep your head down, do as you’re told, make the boss happy, how hard is it? I’ve been doing it for millennia!”

A pause.

“...alright, well, I’ve been _pretending_ for millennia. Same difference.”

Crowley gulped his wine and set it down decisively, then began his slow prowl in the direction of the bed. The moon shining in the windows let his shadow fall across the sheets in a most sinister fashion, which would have earned the grudging approval of his coworkers.

He could do this, Crowley told himself. It was just like going Downstairs to face a bad performance review, that was all. He had survived plenty of those with most of his limbs and sanity intact. At least _he_ wasn’t the one in trouble this time, there would be no flaming whips or endless reams of paperwork for _him…_

His prowl was abruptly cut short by his leg banging into the end table. Crowley hissed and hopped backward to lean against the wall, but even the throbbing pain in his knee couldn’t distract him from a sudden epiphany.

Paperwork. Files.

Of course, the _file!_ Aziraphale’s file! What had Dagon said when she signed off the contract and handed the paperwork over? _Details about his capture and training, his previous masters, known problem areas and effective punishments, etc._ All Crowley had to do was have a peek inside that file, see what the previous masters had considered to be “effective punishments” and maybe he would find some method of discipline that would get the point across without causing needless trauma to either of them. And maybe, just _maybe,_ if Crowley had a better idea of what the actual training entailed, he could prevent another fiasco like in the cafe.

(A more sober Crowley might have acknowledged that this line of reasoning made no sense whatsoever. A more sober Crowley also would not have cared and would have gladly seized upon the distraction anyway. Really, the only difference between sober Crowley and drunk Crowley was that one was better at lying to himself.)

Where had he put that file again? Crowley had a vague memory of tossing it into a crate with the rest of his things in Paris, so it must be in the warehouses. He closed his eyes and visualized it, ready to summon it to hand, but hesitated with a wary look at Aziraphale. What if he woke up and saw Crowley with the file? He might jump to conclusions and start breathing funny again, and then Crowley would have to put him to sleep again and… no, best to read it somewhere else.

But was it safe to leave Aziraphale alone at the moment? Crowley considered his options and snatched up a piece of paper to scrawl a note.

 _Aziraphale_ _  
__Gone out for a thing. Be back soon. Wait for me._ _  
__—Crowley_

“Huh,” Crowley mumbled to himself as he tugged on his coat. There was another question he hadn’t had a chance to ask Dagon. Did Compelling work in writing or did the name have to be spoken aloud? And if Aziraphale _saw_ his name written, could he just stop reading to avoid being Compelled?

His sozzled brain couldn’t work it out. Crowley shook his head. The file first, that came first. He locked the door behind him as he left (or tried to, his miracle was a bit slippery, he might have locked every other door in the hotel _except_ his own), then turned on his heel and vanished.

The warehouse rats squeaked in alarm when he appeared in their midst.

“Sorry to intrude,” Crowley said, voice echoing in the vast space. His breath came out as a visible cloud, and he shivered and squinted through the darkness at the hundreds of boxes and barrels stacked up on all sides. Far too many to go digging through one by one. An impatient wave of his hand made the crate he needed appear out of thin air and slam down at his feet, loud enough to make him wince. “Oops. ‘M too drunk for this.”

The rats watched in silent reproach as he pried the lid off and reached inside, toes scrabbling at the floor when he nearly overbalanced. Finally, Crowley reared back with the file clutched in his hands. “Ah ha! There you are, bastard.” He slid to the floor with his back to the crate and snapped a candle into existence. After a moment, he also manifested a platter of cheese and grapes and nudged it over to the side.

“For your trouble,” Crowley said to the rats.

That seemed to intrigue at least a handful of them. As the rats descended on the plate, squeaking in amazement at the food that never seemed to run out, Crowley opened the file to the first page.

_Aziraphale. Principality. Guardian of the Eastern Gate._

“Yeah, I know that already. Tell me something useful.”

_Captured 79 AD. Pompeii. Found unconscious in the wake of the volcanic blast._

Just beneath the paragraph was the sigil of the demon who had taken credit for the capture and branding. The ink still looked fresh with an oil-like sheen and reeked of burned paper. That sort of thing was standard on most confidential reports. Crowley had done a few himself. Any demon of the appropriate rank who touched the sigil would see the events described from the eyes of the one who had written the report. Very informative for the dukes and princes, very invasive for everyone else.

Crowley had never tried it before. He wasn’t even sure what his exact rank _was_ these days, let alone whether it was sufficient enough to read confidential reports about captured slaves.

But well… first time for everything.

He took a deep breath and touched the sigil.

* * *

_Ashes drifted down from the sky and blanketed the trees and ruined buildings in a thick layer of gray. Though it was midday, the sun was nowhere to be seen. The only source of light was a little campfire at his feet._

_No, wait. That wasn’t normal fire. And his hand was wrapped around a long iron brand, the end of which was swiftly turning bright yellow from contact with the flames._

_“He’s waking up. Hurry with that!”_

_He pulled the brand from the flames, turning. The other two demons had already stripped the angel of his robe and pinned him down, baring the vulnerable skin of his back. His fluffy white wings beat weakly against the ground, sending up little puffs of ash._

_“Brand him, quick!”_

_The angel’s eyes fluttered open, confusion rapidly cycling to fear when he craned to look back and saw the demons, the brand. He scrabbled at the ashy earth, instinctively bucking against the weight on his shoulders and neck._

_“What, where…? No, unhand me! What do you think you’re doing?!”_

_Too late. The brand pressed into his spine, and the angel_ screamed. _Screamed and thrashed and struggled mightily, but all in vain. The brand seared into skin and then deeper still, burning through layers of physical and metaphysical to the very core of him, and in the very last moment before the hellfire would have ended his existence, the brand was pulled away._

_Chains erupted from the burn, glowing a bright burning orange, and they lashed out and wrapped around and around the angel’s wings. They cinched tight, seared the feathers wherever they touched, and the angel wailed and writhed under the hands of the demons._

_Then in a flash, both wings and chains disappeared, gone from this plane of existence. In their place were two binding runes, one on each shoulder blade, linked by the brand in the center. The skin was still bubbling._

_All of the demons cheered._

_And the angel lay still, eyes wide open and gazing blankly at nothing._

* * *

Crowley gasped and lurched up. The rats squeaked in concern as he passed a shaky hand over his face. 

“...well, that was a thing,” Crowley muttered. “That was… _gosh._ That was not fun.”

Aziraphale had looked different in that memory. Less scars, obviously. And the wings, of course. They had been disheveled and matted with volcanic dust and badly in need of a preening, but even so they had looked glorious and powerful and so incredibly soft to the touch. Crowley was really trying very hard not to think about running his fingers through those feathers. For more reasons than one, it would never happen.

He flipped to the next report and pulled a face at the sight of Dagon’s handwriting. Scrawling and nearly illegible, yet very meticulous, as could be expected from the Master of Torments and Lord of the Files.

_79 AD - First impression? Bloody stubborn. He keeps trying to reason with me, insists that Heaven will be coming to rescue him and the others. Idiot. Will attempt to beat this attitude out of him._

_145 AD - Still working on the attitude. Beatings and torments have been upped to twice weekly. Has a bad habit of talking to the other slaves, telling them to “buck up” whatever that means._

_216 AD - He tried to escape today. Rounded up some of the other slaves and they all made a run for the gates. The hellhounds ran them down and dragged them back. Told him if he tried that again, he and anyone who helped him would be demoted to chew toy._

_238 AD - Another escape attempt. Hounds sicced. I know I should be annoyed, but I have to admit, it’s free entertainment._

_254 AD - For Hell’s sake! He never learns! I commissioned three extra corporations and let Hastur feed him to the pack a few times. Maybe that’ll make the lesson sink in._

So that explained the dog thing. Crowley grimaced and didn’t bother to touch Dagon’s sigil at the bottom of the page. No need when he could picture it just fine in his head. Hastur and Dagon callously tossing the angel into a pit of vicious hellhounds and watching in glee as he was ripped apart and eaten alive, then doing it again and again and _again…_

_300 AD - He stopped trying to reason with me, finally. Now all I get is the Silent Treatment. He doesn’t even scream anymore when I torment him. I miss the screaming._

_401 AD - Still no screaming. I realized today he hasn’t cried yet either. That’s my new personal goal this century. Make him cry._

_509 AD - No crying yet. I’m getting BORED._

_529 AD - He’s boring, but at least he’s predictable. Made another escape attempt. Plan foiled, everything is under control. I have a new batch of slaves to break, so I’ll be putting this recalcitrant in isolation for a few centuries._

_1082 AD - Isolation ended. Seems much more compliant now. Nearly ready for assignment._

Another sigil. Crowley hovered his fingers over it for nearly a full minute before he succumbed to temptation and let himself fall into the memory.

* * *

_He knew this place, though Crowley had only glimpsed it briefly in the past. The Conference Room, they called it with a sick sort of irony. An enormous empty chamber with hundreds upon hundreds of summoning circles scrawled on the dank floor. There was no order, no rhyme or reason, they were simply drawn wherever there was space with hardly any room to walk between. Most circles were empty—the angelic slaves being currently in use—but a few were occupied by slaves who were still in training, or by disobedient slaves awaiting punishment and reeducation._

_Crowley stood before one such circle._ (Though not really Crowley. This was Dagon’s memory, he was just along for the ride.) _She knelt and laid her hand on the edge of the glowing lines, which pulsed in response._

_“Aziraphale. Come to me.”_

_The circle pulsed again. And then Aziraphale was there, gasping as he stumbled and fell to his knees, arms flying up to cover his eyes. His toga was dirty and a little tattered, but nowhere near the sorry state that it would be in another seven hundred years._

_Crowley felt the grin stretch across Dagon’s face as she rose to her feet. “How was isolation, my pet? Did you miss me?”_

_Aziraphale glared as best he could through watering eyes that couldn’t seem to bear the dim light of the circle. A few of the other slaves nearby were blatantly pretending not to watch, but the tension in the air made Crowley’s tongue feel sticky._ (Or was that Dagon’s tongue? Ew.)

_“Are you ready to behave now?” Dagon asked. “I’d say five hundred years is more than long enough to learn your lesson.”_

_Aziraphale opened his mouth, then immediately shut it when he noticed the hellhounds. Only two of them, prowling around the edges of the circle, saliva dripping from sharp canines, but it was enough to make him flinch back, shaking head to toe._

_Dagon made an impatient noise. “I_ said—”

_“I will do as you say!” Aziraphale said hastily. With another frightened look at the hounds, he bowed his head and spoke through gritted teeth. “I… I will do my utmost to obey from now on.”_

_Dagon laughed, harsh and too loud. “Oh, really now? I’ll believe it when I see it. Now, say you’re sorry for being a little brat and causing me all those headaches.”_

_But Aziraphale hesitated. Dagon scowled and snapped her fingers, and the hounds lunged, one clamping its jaws on the angel’s leg while the other bit into the meat of his shoulder._ _Aziraphale cried out and weakly tried to fend them off._

_“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, please, forgive me! I won’t try to escape again, please—!”_

_Dagon snapped again. The hounds whined in displeasure at being denied, but backed away. Aziraphale lay where they had left him, panting and curling in on himself._

_“Oh, it’s not just about that, precious. You know what I’m really upset about.” Dagon jerked her head at the other slaves. “The backtalk. The little speeches to the others, being a bad influence. The insistence that you will bow to no one but the Lord above.”_

_Dagon stepped closer to the circle and leaned down. “Just once, go on. Just once, I want to hear you call me Mistress. I want_ all _of them to hear you. It doesn’t have to be such a big thing, you know. It’s only_ words. _Or don’t you think God will forgive you?”_

_Aziraphale stubbornly shook his head. “I will never…”_

_“Or would you like to be a martyr instead? It’s no scales off my fin, I could always chuck you back into isolation. Maybe with a few of the hounds to keep you company this time, hm?”_

_But the angel held his silence, clutching his shoulder and staring resolutely at the floor. With a deep sigh, Dagon stood up and raised her hand as if to snap._

_“Wait!”_

_Aziraphale looked up. His chin wobbled, pale face mottled with bruises, but whatever fight had been left in him was gone now, eyes dull and defeated._

_“Yes?”_

_He swallowed hard. And slowly, painfully, he shifted into a kneeling position and leaned forward until his forehead touched the ground, utterly supplicant._

_“M… Mistress,” Aziraphale whispered. “Please, Mistress Dagon. Have mercy, I beg of you.”_

_Somewhere in the chamber, one of the other angels sobbed._

_Dagon grinned savagely and reached down to put her finger under Aziraphale’s chin. Slowly, she guided him back upright until he could meet her eyes._

_Dagon gave his cheek a condescending pat._

_“There, now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”_

* * *

Crowley wanted to kill Dagon.

Of all the emotions to come away with, that one surprised him the most. Pity, he had expected. Horror and disgust, he had expected. It wasn’t like he hadn’t _known_ it would be bad. Anguish and suffering was sort of the whole point of Hell, and Crowley had never met a single demon who disliked their job. He was the odd one out, always had been.

But even so… even so, that didn’t make it any easier to _see_ it. To see Aziraphale’s pain laid out in ink and memory for anyone to peruse. And Dagon probably _had_ perused. Crowley wouldn’t put it past her to fill up a slow day by pulling out random reports to reread at her leisure.

…would it be so bad if he accidentally-on-purpose dropped this entire file into the ocean? Crowley was almost tempted. He would have been happy enough to never lay eyes on this blessed thing ever again. He didn’t need or want to know _any_ of this.

And yet like watching a Greek tragedy unfold, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from reading on.

_1084 AD - Basic training complete. Ready for assignment._

The next report was written by Aziraphale’s first master. Gorhn, one of Dagon’s direct underlings, who apparently spent most of their time behind a desk, so Aziraphale had been put to work as a glorified secretary, filling out forms in triplicate and rubbing his master’s feet. There were occasional bouts of disobedience, which were punished with beatings and whipping—fairly standard stuff, for the most part. Not that that made it _better._ It was still enslavement and still terrible.

There had also been no further attempts at escape. Somehow, that was even more upsetting.

After only a few short centuries, Gorhn was promoted and decided he deserved a slave more befitting his station. _I want a screamer this time,_ Gorhn had written to Dagon, _not one that just stands there and takes it._ And Dagon had arranged for just that and taken Aziraphale back for a period of retraining.

Crowley turned the page to the next report. But three sentences in, he had to stop and slam the file shut.

The Spanish Inquisition. He had nearly forgotten… Crowley had taken the credit for that. Sent in report after report on the recruitments and propaganda, the slaughters and sickness, the interrogations and _torture…_ he had written it all down in explicit detail, then gone for a long holiday in Brazil to avoid the whole thing.

Dagon had learned a great deal from those reports. And adjusted the training programs accordingly.

One of the rats waddled up to Crowley and curled up in his lap, its little belly bulging with food. He rubbed his thumb along its soft little head, took a deep breath and opened the file again. He was too deep in it now to turn back, but he convinced himself it was fine to skip ahead. No one could blame him for not wanting to relive some of humanity's worst eras.

_1503 AD - Reeducation complete. Ready for new assignment._

The second master, Mathub, was considerably more nasty than the first. Crowley began to feel a little queasy as he skimmed through reports detailing punishment after punishment for such innocuous things as “talking too much” and “sounding too smart” and “forgetting to call me _sir”_ and “he just looked at me funny”. It was always something with old Mathub, nothing Aziraphale did was ever good enough. At some point, the old bastard decided to cut off the backtalk right at the source… by cutting out his slave's tongue each time he spoke out of turn.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said and forgot to worry about the embarrassing way his voice broke. It was fine, the rats wouldn’t hold it against him.

In time, even Mathub had had enough and traded Aziraphale away to another master. This third master, Hesbestas, had been very sparse in his own reports, but notably there was a disciplinary note from the Dark Council in 1734. Apparently, Aziraphale had been discorporated multiple times at the hands of this master, and Dagon had decided to take away Hesbestas’ slave privileges until he could learn some restraint. Bodies weren’t cheap, after all.

Seeing the end in sight, Crowley hurried to flip the next report. But in doing so, his fingers inadvertently brushed against another sigil and…

* * *

_Laughter. Raucous, jeering laughter, and under it the sound of retching. The crowds and discordant music told him it was an office party, banners strung up to celebrate the arrival of some Very Important Soul or other. Tables were laden with human food and alcohol, not that many demons had much interest in either, so it was mostly there for the aesthetic._

_Except for tonight._

_“Please let me stop!”_

_Aziraphale lay half collapsed against a chair, toga stained with a revolting blend of food and vomit. Even now his hand groped upward and clumsily plunged a bowl filled some kind of pudding, then brought the sticky handful to his mouth. Several demons stood around howling with laughter at the spectacle._

_“Make him eat the oysters next!”_

_“No, the clotted cream! I want to see him down the whole thing!”_

_Aziraphale gagged around his own fingers and pried them from his mouth. “Master, please!” he said, voice ragged. “I can’t… I can’t eat any more! Please don’t make me!”_

_But Hesbestas only cackled. “Aw, go on, you’ve earned this, Aziraphale! You’ve been so good lately, I just want to reward you. Now_ keep going _until not a single crumb remains.”_

_His master’s command took hold, but even that wasn’t strong enough to stop the slave from throwing up yet again after the pudding was consumed. And the demons just kept laughing and laughing as he was Compelled to reach for the next plate._

* * *

Crowley let the file tumble from his hand, papers scattered everywhere, and buried his face in his hands. After a moment, he summoned a cup of ginger tea with a slice of lemon and sipped slowly. It wasn’t as good as the one Aziraphale had made for him on the ship. That cuppa had tasted of comfort and nice things. Aziraphale had gone out of his way to make it that way, even though he hadn’t needed to. He could have left it bitter and cold or simply not offered at all.

“...well, that was useless,” Crowley mumbled into his tea. Worse than useless, in fact. He was probably going to have nightmares about it, and he wasn’t even the one who had to live through it. No, Crowley could _never_ have lived through that. He would have gone insane somewhere around the two century mark, come out the other end a raving lunatic rocking back and forth in a corner somewhere.

But Aziraphale had not, despite all of their best efforts. He had survived. More than that, he had _fought back._ Resisted the initial training for over a thousand years, tried to escape multiple times, and all the while reached out to comfort the other slaves in captivity. He had tried to protect them, to _save_ them.

An icky lump welled in Crowley’s throat, an urge to weep and _rage_ at those bastards for what they had done to this angel. To _this_ _angel_ in particular, who was so unlike any other being Crowley had ever met. He liked _books,_ for Hell’s sake, just what kind of an angel read books? And he had obviously liked food at one time before it was ruined for him. Did he like alcohol, too? Had he ever tried dancing? How would he react if Crowley got them both dressed up and invited to some fancy party, where they could rub elbows with the rich and snobby and poke their noses in rooms they didn’t belong and sequester away in dark corners to giggle and gossip about whatever scandalous affairs the humans were up to…

…not that it would ever happen. The shining, half-formed fantasy burst like a soap bubble, intruded upon by stark reality. Aziraphale hated him. Of course he did, how could he not? Crowley was just another in a long line of cruel, sadistic masters. It didn’t matter what he did now, even if he never raised a hand to the angel, it wouldn’t change a thing about their dynamic, the power that Crowley held. Aziraphale would always be afraid. Crowley _needed_ him to keep being afraid.

He heard a squeak. Crowley looked down, mildly surprised to find six more rats piled in his lap, all sound asleep. He would have hissed and shoved them off, but well… the warehouse was still cold, and they were very warm.

Could stand to be a little warmer though. He glanced up at the paperwork and, in a fit of vindictiveness, jerked his head at the candle, which obligingly tipped over. The paper was slow to catch, but very quick to burn, and the flames would last as long as he desired if they knew what was good for them.

“…I hate my job,” Crowley said under his breath. “There, I said it! I never _asked_ to be a demon. Just… wrong place, wrong time. Got that in common, me and him.”

He sighed and let his head tip back against the crate and relished the heat soaking into his bones. “What am I supposed to do now?”

The rats had no answer.

* * *

It took three days to muster up the courage to go back. Three days in which Crowley sluggishly wandered the streets not doing much of anything. He couldn’t even find any comfort in alcohol, he was so steeped in misery.

Aziraphale must be awake by now. Probably frightened out of his wits in that little room, wracked with dread, wondering when his master would return and how he would be punished for daring to upchuck a bit of cake. And Crowley had no idea how to handle that. He didn’t particularly _want_ to punish Aziraphale and add to that heaping pile of trauma he was already carrying around… but Aziraphale was clever, _too_ clever, and if that file was anything to go by, he was accustomed to swift retribution for the littlest mistakes. Crowley couldn’t string him along with empty threats forever, it was only a matter of time before he saw through the bluster.

Or maybe Aziraphale would save him the trouble and strike first. Maybe he had already snuck out and run off to the nearest church for holy water, and now he was lying in wait, bucket over the door, just waiting for the moment Crowley would wander into his trap…

…why did that possibility not frighten him like it should?

“Least my problems would be over, then,” Crowley said glumly and ignored the odd looks he was getting from passersby. Just one little splash would be all it took. One drop, and there he would be, a puddle on the floor. So much for the Serpent of Eden. Not like anyone would miss him.

A stagecoach rolled by on the street, and the wheels splashed him with muddy water. Crowley pulled a face, rudely yanked from his thoughts. This was why he hated London. The first sunny day had been a fluke, it had been nothing but pouring rain ever since. His new clothes were drenched head to toe, boots squelching, and the less said about his hair the better. The wind whipped his sodden coat around as he jammed his hands in his pockets and glared at the hotel across the street, where Aziraphale waited.

He had a plan, sort of. The plan was to sweep into the room and complain loudly about the weather and order Aziraphale to draw him a bath and wash his clothes. He would be bossy and pretentious about it and blather on about how much he hated London and hated rain and hated Heaven for inventing rain… and through it all, he would make absolutely _no_ mention of what had happened in the cafe. The idea was to aggressively ignore the whole thing unless Aziraphale brought it up himself, in which case Crowley would pretend to have no idea what he was talking about and how _dare_ Aziraphale question him, etc.

As far as plans went, it was either brilliant in its simplicity or as transparent as glass. He was mostly counting on Aziraphale to take the hint and be grateful that his master was a lazy, forgetful sod who couldn’t be bothered to keep track of anything. Surely he wouldn't question it? No one in their right mind would _demand_ to be punished.

It would work. It _had_ to work. Otherwise, Crowley was in for a world of pain once Hell learned the truth, and he would rather avoid that if at all possible.

Drawing his coat tighter around him, Crowley stepped out and began to cross the street.

And was immediately trampled by a panicky horse galloping down the road at breakneck speed, to the shock and horror of dozens of human witnesses (and one startled angel watching from a high window).

* * *

It hurt.

 _Oh,_ it hurt. _Everything_ hurt. Every breath he wheezed in made his chest and throat scream, head pounding and limbs aching. Like he had tumbled down a mountainside and landed on a bed of sharp rocks at the bottom.

Crowley whimpered. It was about all he could manage as far as speech went.

He heard an unfamiliar voice somewhere nearby. “…don’t like the look of that leg, Mr. Fell. I understand your reluctance, but it’s not too late to bring him to a surgeon…”

“No need, no need!” The second voice was more familiar, but edging on hysterical. The angel. Had to be. “Thank you, doctor, I appreciate all you’ve done, but I will take it from here. I have extensive medical training, I assure you.”

“But sir, the severity of his injuries… surely it’s in his best interest to remove the foot before infection sets in?”

Crowley whimpered again. He had a sudden, gory vision of human doctors strapping him to a table and cutting into him and not finding the proper organs in their proper places, and then deciding to _keep_ _cutting_ and see what other parts of him were wrong. Not because they _wanted_ to hurt him, just because they were curious and didn’t know any better and would happily test things to destruction in their hunger to understand.

“I’m sure he will make his wishes known when he wakes,” Aziraphale said hastily. “In the meantime, I must _insist_ you let my… my acquaintance rest. You’re a very busy man, you must have other patients who need your expertise, I’m sure.”

“But,” the doctor stammered, “well, if you insist. But don’t hesitate to call upon me if he worsens in the night. And be sure to dose him for the pain at regular intervals and…”

“Yes, I will, thank you! Goodbye now!”

The firm _click_ of a door shutting. Then a soft shuffling like blankets being moved. Something brushed against him, and even that gentle touch was like barbed hooks spearing into his skin. Crowley would have screamed but it came out more like the dying bleat of an animal.

“Master Crowley?” Aziraphale said in an undertone. “If you can hear me, please squeeze my hand.”

What was a hand and how did he squeeze it? Crowley couldn’t remember. It was very hard to form a coherent thought at the moment. All he could hear in the silence was his own panting, labored breaths.

“I know you must be in a lot of pain,” Azuraphale said, “but you haven’t discorporated. Not yet, anyway. You’re hanging on by a thread.”

Pity. He would have liked to be incorporeal at the moment. He wanted _out_ of this body. He wanted to be a cloud of mist, a bug, anything to escape this.

“Master, please say something.” Aziraphale sounded weirdly distressed, and it roused him slightly from his half conscious state. “Can you open your eyes?”

Eyes. He thought he knew what those were. Something to do with light and lenses and refracting and… oh, there they were. Crowley blinked up at the ceiling of the hotel room, then flicked his gaze over to the fretting angel at his side.

“Oh, oh thank goodness!” Aziraphale gasped. “I didn’t know what to do, I was so afraid you wouldn't wake up! And I just _know_ Mistress Dagon would find a way to blame me if you discorporated, I dare not imagine the punishment that would have awaited…”

Oh, of course, the bastard was only worried about himself. Couldn’t care less about Crowley. Not that Crowley blamed him, but _still…_ he wished he had the energy to turn his back and sulk.

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh, just _peachy,”_ Crowley croaked with all the snark he could muster. “What do you think? I got run over by a bloody horse!”

“A horse _and_ the cart it was pulling,” Aziraphale corrected. “Heavens, it was terrible! The humans all thought you were dead, but then one of them poked you, and you started shouting and speaking in tongues, and I had to run out and throw my coat over your head before anyone could see your eyes. And then that so-called doctor showed up and kept talking about chopping off your leg, and I mean, _really._ One would think humanity had moved past such barbaric methods…”

“My leg?” Crowley looked down at the blankets covering his lower half and reached down clumsily to pull them off.

“Wait, that might not be the best—”

Once the blankets were out of the way, Crowley got a good look at his naked corporation, which from the chest down was covered in so many bruises and scrapes that he was shocked he had any skin left to his name. Some were still bleeding, though they had obviously been cleaned to judge by the mountains of bloody rags and the strong medicinal smell. His arm was in a sling, which brought a sudden awareness of how that shoulder was throbbing, and his first attempt at sitting up was foiled when the slightest motion made his vision black out, bruised ribs refusing to cooperate. And, oh sweet Antichrist, Crowley was fairly sure his knee was _not_ meant to bend that way. Nor were his toes supposed to be that alarming shade of purplish-blue.

“…it’s not as bad as it looks,” Aziraphale assured him.

 _“Gnk,”_ Crowley moaned and sank back to the mattress.

“Oh alright, I lied, it’s very bad,” Aziraphale said wretchedly. “But at least you’ve woken up now so you can heal it. And… it’s just a suggestion, master, but perhaps we ought to see about finding another hotel? We’ve very much drawn attention to ourselves here.”

“Can’t.”

“Of course you can. I know it’s a lot all at once, but…”

Crowley pressed a shaky hand to his face, trying to think straight through the waves of agony lancing up and down his leg. “No. Can’t. ‘S not allowed.”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. “Not, not _allowed?”_ he said. “What do you… are demons not permitted to heal their corporations?”

“Healing in general, yeah,” Crowley hissed into his palm. “Demons don’t… don’t go around curing plagues and making the blind see. That’s Heaven’s thing. Can’t do it even once, not for any reason. I’d be audited.”

“And being audited is bad?”

Crowley shot him a dirty look between his fingers. Because, yes _obviously,_ being audited was bad. There was absolutely no reality in which the word _audit_ was a good and welcome thing.

“But then,” Aziraphale said, clearly still struggling to grasp the concept, “what do you _do_ when your corporation is mortally wounded?”

Crowley gurgled a laugh. “Die? Or heal the long way.”

“That… oh, but that’s _awful.”_

“It’s Hell. What do you expect?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of whatever he meant to say. Crowley made a halfhearted attempt to sit upright, only for his spine to twinge in a very clear warning against sudden movements. He was sweating buckets, stomach rolling over itself, and he let his head loll to the side with another groan.

“Hurts. What’d that… that doctor human say? ‘Bout the pain?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale immediately leapt up and went to a table across the room. His back was to Crowley for a moment, so all he could hear was a clink of bottles and liquid being poured. Then Crowley seemed to blink and Aziraphale was right beside him again with a glass tumbler filled with dark liquid.

“It’s, it’s called laudanum,” Aziraphale explained nervously. “I’m to give you the appropriate dosage diluted in wine every three to four hours depending on how much pain you…”

Crowley lunged for the tumbler, almost spilling it before Aziraphale steadied his hand and cradled his head to help him gulp it all down. Hoping it would work fast, Crowley laid back and let the angel fuss over him, setting the tumbler aside and tucking in the blankets.

“There you are. Just rest, Master. I’ll watch over you.”

“Mm. ‘Kay.”

“Is there anything you require of me?”

Crowley blinked at the blurry face above him, the details blotted out by the gray light streaming from the window. “Dunno. Kind of tired. ‘Verythingsss all… floaty.”

The blob nodded. “I’ll just… wait over here then, shall I?”

“Wait.” Crowley groped around weakly and managed to snag Aziraphale’s sleeve before he moved away. “Wait. Zir’phl.”

“Y-Yes?”

“‘M sorry about the cake,” Crowley said, slurring words in his effort to get them out. “Didn’t know ‘bout… shouldn’t’ve told you to… you didn’t deserve that. Wasn’t trying to _scare_ you or punish or… you didn’t deserve _any_ of it…”

It seemed to take a long time for Aziraphale to come up with a response. “I… you’re very tired, Master. You don't know what you’re saying.”

“No, no, you _have_ to forgive me,” Crowley pleaded weakly. This was very important to him, for some reason, though he could not have explained why. The thought slipped away as he tumbled into blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t dare to move until long after his master’s breathing had evened out, until there was absolutely no sign of awareness for a solid hour. Even then, he remained in his chair, hands clasped tight in his lap, tense and attentive and ready to serve at a moment’s notice. He could—and had—spent decades at a time like this, standing or sitting or kneeling, always awaiting the next command. Or the next torment.

Sometimes he honestly preferred the torment. Pain was not something Aziraphale could fail at or be punished for, it only needed to be endured. A master who desired his suffering was easy to please. A master who liked to see him beg and grovel and debase himself was easy to please. A master who ignored him entirely except to bark the occasional harsh command was easy to please.

But Master Crowley, he was slowly learning to his dismay, was not at all easy to please. While his other masters had been very forthright with their demands, no guesswork needed, Crowley seemed to favor mind games over violence, and his mood was mercurial and unpredictable to the point that Aziraphale wanted to scream. It was like playing cards in the dark with a dealer who wouldn’t explain the rules and was just _waiting_ for him to make a misstep. Every time he thought he knew what to expect, Crowley would change the stakes again and leave him floundering.

At least he had a reprieve, for a time… thanks in no small part to the triple dose of laudanum that Aziraphale had slipped in the wine. His hands had been shaking as he offered the tumbler, but the risk had paid off. Crowley had suspected nothing. And now here his master lay, wounded and drugged up to his ears, mouth hanging open and limbs all akimbo. So helpless and vulnerable. So _confident_ he had Aziraphale under his thumb, thoroughly subjugated.

A flicker of hot anger lashed at his iron-clad self control. Aziraphale looked at the pillow and fantasized about holding it over the demon’s face, pressing down with all his strength, watching him thrash and suffocate slowly. And why not? He was already facing dire punishment for the overdose and the dog and the cake and countless other things. The list of his mistakes and offenses just kept growing, so what was one more?

Crowley snuffled in his sleep. Aziraphale almost leapt out of his skin at the sound, waves of cold fear washing through him. He took a deep breath. No, not now. There was too much at stake to act upon such a frenzied impulse. Not _yet._

Standing quickly and smoothing out his waistcoat, Aziraphale went to the window and looked out on the street below. The crashed cart had been moved aside to allow traffic to pass, and the humans who had witnessed the horrific accident were lingering to gossip about it, huddled under their umbrellas. Some looked in the direction of the hotel, and Aziraphale stepped aside to hide behind the curtains. Oh, he hoped none of them came up to check on his master. They were well-meaning creatures, humans, but the _last_ thing he needed was for an innocent person to come bumbling in here trying to help and irritating Crowley further. Heaven only knew what his master would do in retaliation. After what he had threatened to do to the children on the ship…

...what exactly _had_ he threatened to do?

Aziraphale frowned. Now that he thought back, Crowley had never _actually_ threatened to hurt the children. More implied it, really. It was Aziraphale himself who had jumped to all manner of horrific assumptions.

“Well, of _course_ I thought—” He bit back the words and peeked back at his master warily. Again with the talking! Aziraphale just couldn’t seem to help himself no matter how many times his tongue was cut out. He had always liked talking, liked _conversation,_ and all of those long centuries languishing in isolation, locked away in the dark and damp with only his own voice for company, had just made it more difficult to censor himself.

But Crowley couldn’t hear him _now,_ surely. And there was at least one question burning to be asked.

“I don’t understand you,” Aziraphale murmured. “I don’t… why was it me you chose? There are _hundreds_ of enslaved angels, you could have had any of them. I’m hardly…”

He had to stop himself from saying it out loud. _Hardly at the top of anyone’s list._ It was the truth, much as Aziraphale despised thinking of himself and his brethren as mere commodities. Items of status to be hawked and peddled and traded all through the circles of Hell. Really, he considered himself very lucky to be one of the unpopular ones, unlikely to gain the notice of anyone of significant rank.

And yet, here he was, enslaved to the Serpent of Eden.

Well, there was no accounting for taste, he supposed. If there was at least one thing he had learned so far, it was that Master Crowley was a vain creature who liked his possessions to shine as prettily as him. That could be the only reason for the bath, the new clothes. Aziraphale looked down at his hands, which for the first time in a very long time, were clean of filth and unmarred by bruises or broken skin. Even his fingernails had regrown from the last time Dagon had ripped them out. His body still ached with older injuries, little twinges now and again, but there had been no further rough treatment since he came into Crowley’s possession. Not even a casual slap or kick when he rightly deserved it.

Aziraphale shuddered, memories of that night in Paris flashing back. When Master Crowley had forced him to disrobe and summoned all of those… those _implements…_ by God, there had been so many! And some he hadn’t even recognized! Aziraphale had known he was in for a very long night then. He had already begun to recite The Odyssey in his head as a distraction, steeling himself for the very worst.

That Crowley had spared him that night had not been a mercy. Only a cruel reminder of the power he held. He let his threats hang over his slave, not because he had no intention of following through, but to toy with Aziraphale and keep him on his toes. Beneath that handsome face and guileless smirk was a dangerous, conniving, two-faced snake who would not hesitate to tear him limb from limb.

At least he thought… he was _fairly_ _sure_ that was the reason. Aziraphale did not dare to consider any other explanation.

And yet…

_You just disintegrated a dog! What’d that poor thing ever do to you?_

_We can work this out, you and me. Our little arrangement._

_You have to forgive me…_

“No, don’t even think it,” Aziraphale lectured himself soundly. “It’s a _trick._ He’s the Serpent of Eden, for Heaven's sake! Temptation is his specialty!”

He set to pacing around back and forth, nearly tripping over a towel that had been left on the floor. “Just… just hold out for a little longer, there’s a chap. Heaven will notice I’ve come back to Earth. If nothing else, I’m sure the smiting will turn up on someone’s report. They _will_ find you. And if not…”

Aziraphale faltered. If not… then he would revisit taking matters into his own hands. He had made a promise, after all. But for now, he must do all in his power to appease his current master, get back into his good graces. The very _last_ thing he wanted was to be given back to Dagon. She might well decide this was the last straw and lock him away until the Apocalypse. Or worse. There was always an _or worse_ in Hell.

The scent of sulfur tainted in the air. Aziraphale gagged and coughed, then gasped when he realized what that meant. At once he flung himself to his hands and knees, face pressed to the wood as the walls flickered orange, the source coming from the flames that had inexplicably bloomed into existence near the end table.

No, _on_ the end table. The fire died down and left a scorch mark on the wood, along with a charred envelope. The name _Crawly_ was emblazoned on the front.

Beneath his instinctive terror came a pang of nostalgia. There had been a time once when Aziraphale had received missives like that. Bright, pristine envelopes that appeared in a flash of light with a scent of mint and petrichor, addressed to _Principality Aziraphale._

He pushed the thought away and shakily climbed to his feet, then had a moment of panicked dithering over what to do next. Should he wake Master Crowley? Would he wish to be informed of the missive? What if he was angry at being woken and decided to punish his slave? What if Aziraphale let him sleep and then he was angry at _not_ being woken?

Aziraphale paced around and worried at his buttons before squaring himself. “If they’re anything like Gabriel,” he said decisively, “they will _not_ be happy at being kept waiting.”

He gingerly picked up the letter and slid a finger under the seal to open it. The spidery handwriting was unfamiliar to him, but the message itself made him blanch and look to his slumbering master.

“Oh dear…”


End file.
